The Long Way
by KenzieGal
Summary: Season 9 Carter POV post-ep series crossing over with Sunni's 'Reflections.' **Fifteenth and final chapter, "Leave a Light on for Me," post-ep for 'Kisangani,' now up**
1. The Long Way

Title: The Long Way  
  
Author: KenzieGal (a/k/a It's Always Something)  
  
Disclaimer: Carter and Abby do not belong to me - they are the property of the wise minds of TPTB at Warner Brothers. No copyright infringement intended.  
  
Notes: This story has been crystallizing in my mind for quite awhile - I just was looking for a post ep to attach it to. I have always been intrigued by Carter's POV and fortunately, it seems an untapped wonderland in fanficdom. My intention is for it to be the start of a regular post ep series. I've been lurking at this site for a month or so, blown away by the creative juices flowing here. I'd love some constructive criticism as this is my first attempt to channel carby's telepathy.  
  
Thanks to some of the regular posters at The Carby Board - to Lanie for her quietly persistent encouragement and for setting/raising the carby bar with her spectacular "Reflections" series. And to Pemberley whose unparalleled belief in the magic of carby helped me find my way back home.  
  
Spoilers: Everything during Season 9 up to and including "First Snowfall."  
  
Enjoy.  
  
****  
  
The Long Way  
  
"Can I get you something to drink?"  
  
The voice was coming from a distance, interrupting my forty winks.  
  
I bolted upright in my seat and opened my eyes to the sound of a perky blonde flight attendant with a nasal southern twang.  
  
"Diet coke with a twist of lemon, please."  
  
I rubbed my hands across my face as I glanced out the window at the sun setting underneath a cloudless midwestern skyline . By my calculations, we were somewhere over DesMoines, Iowa. It hadn't seemed to snow anywhere else besides Chicago. Blame it on the lake effect.  
  
I took in my surroundings. With a flurry of cancellations and missed connections, I had managed to get the last seat in first class. There was an elegant-looking older woman seated next to me. She reminded me of Gamma.  
  
I soon learned that she was en route to Lincoln, Nebraska to witness the christening of her first great-grandchild. I sat there half listening, amused by her endless chatter about the lives and loves of her assorted offspring and their extended families.  
  
The conversation eventually turned to the circumstances of my trip. I tried to put a similarly cheerful spin on it, dancing around the Wcynzenski family's latest mental health crisis, instead embellishing my valiant efforts to get out of Chicago in three feet of snow to be with my globe-trotting girlfriend. She was suitably impressed as I recounted my ill-fated attempt to reach O'Hare by snowmobile.  
  
"You must really love her a lot, dear," she said soothingly.  
  
I conjured up a mental image of what I must have looked like packing the contents of Abby's underwear drawer.  
  
"Love makes you do crazy things," I opined, not for the first time.  
  
The flight attendant appeared again with an offer of headphones and a basket of CDs. I quickly selected one from the bottom -- any excuse to go back to my quiet, happy place. I listened to the first track and glanced at the jewel case. Norah Jones. Good stuff.  
  
I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes. My mind wandered back to a conversation that had taken place in my apartment the morning before she and Gallant had left for Nebraska.  
  
We had crossed some sort of invisible threshold in the days since what I had mentally filed away as our "constant comment" conversation. Despite her obvious worry about Eric's whereabouts and his mental state, there was an air of tranquility about her. She seemed to have found immeasurable solace in the fact that she was no longer alone in her lifelong vigil to keep Maggie and Eric out of harm's way.  
  
And I had derived immense comfort from being drawn into the circle of her concern.  
  
After an evening of tender lovemaking, my eyes fluttered open to find her propped up lazily on one elbow watching me sleep. She pulled me over to her so that we faced one another, navel to navel, not more than mere inches separating us.  
  
"You awake?" I loved the way her voice sounded so husky in the morning.  
  
"I am now."  
  
"Good." She traced a circle on my bare chest. "Can I ask you a question?"  
  
"Do I have a choice?"  
  
"Not really."  
  
"Shoot."  
  
"When did it happen for you?"  
  
I knew where she was going, but decided to play along. "When did what happen for me?"  
  
"You know." She wasn't making it easier.  
  
"Not really." I pretended to yawn playfully.  
  
"Do I have to draw you a picture?"  
  
"Depends. Can you do better than wolves with leprosy?"  
  
"Carter," she groaned. "When did IT happen for you? When did you realize you couldn't spend another moment without me?" she chided.  
  
I chuckled. She had been spending too much time talking to Susan.  
  
"Is this what you, Deb and Susan spend all your nights out with the girls' club talking about? Exchanging war stories?"  
  
"Sometimes. C'mon, tell me."  
  
I fell silent, struggling to find an answer. Who knew what the truth was anyway? I had spent two years running from it. There would be plenty of time to dissect the twists and turns of our relationship with a generous sprinkle of revisionist history. Someday I would tell her everything, such as it was. But first I had to admit things to myself.  
  
"When did it happen for you?" She was nothing if not persistent.  
  
My memory reached back into the dark rolodex of suppressed emotions. What to tell her?  
  
All the nights I had willed myself to sleep to prevent the image of her lying in Luka's arms, naked in his bed?  
  
The night I "rescued" her after the explosion in the ER?  
  
The night we danced at the museum gala?  
  
The Valentine's Day night up on the roof after she lost her first patient?  
  
As the memory of that ill-fated evening came flooding back, it struck an imaginary nerve, precipitating a dull ache deep in my gut. I recalled brave attempts to conjure up the memory of Abby's face in the soft moonlight as I floated in and out of consciousness during the days that followed.  
  
Then. That was it.  
  
But I couldn't tell her. Not yet.  
  
"Earth to Carter." She jolted me back to reality.  
  
"OK. I've got it. The trip to Oklahoma. After Rena broke up with me, I wanted to jump your bones. You looked so cute in the convertible."  
  
She looked at me disbelievingly. "That's the best you can do? Hey wait. So I was rebound girl?"  
  
"Technically, no, since nothing happened."  
  
The ringing phone interrupted our conversation. It was Susan asking Abby if she would trade the day shift for the night shift. Needless to say, we never finished the discussion.  
  
The captain's voice nudged me out of my quiet reverie, booming over the PA system announcing that we were beginning our descent into the greater Omaha area. After a flawless landing, I went in search of the rental car counter.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
The drive across the flat Midwestern terrain was uneventful. I found the base easily enough. The directions from the rental car agent had been spot on.  
  
I wondered if she'd be as surprised as I wanted her to be. My last phone call from the snow- burdened ER had been purposefully misleading.  
  
I steered the car into the parking lot. A wide berth of stone steps flanked the main buildings. I saw two women seated in the distance, deep in conversation. I recognized the familiar cream-colored coat. My heart did its familiar flip flop at the very sight of her. The other looked like - no wait. Could it be? Where the hell was Gallant?  
  
I punched in the numbers I knew by heart. The phone rang a couple of times. After several seconds, the figure I knew could only be Maggie wandered off and disappeared into one of the buildings.  
  
She picked up on the fourth ring.  
  
"Hello," she answered breathlessly.  
  
I tried to sound nonchalant. "Hey. You turned on your cell phone."  
  
"Hi." From the distance, I could see the smile creep into her voice as the car drew closer.  
  
"Well, did you find him?"  
  
"Yah. I found him. They might court martial him, but I found him." She stared at the ground.  
  
I pulled up in front of her. She still didn't see me.  
  
"Did you tell her that he's sick?"  
  
"They already knew. It's a long story. You still snowed in?"  
  
"Oh, the city's a mess." I climbed out of the car, still maintaining the charade, and slammed the door. "How're you holding up?" Just then, she looked up. I turned off my cell phone.  
  
I had never seen her look more exhausted. Or more vulnerable. Or more pleasantly surprised. Or more beautiful.  
  
She pulled the phone away from her ear and tucked it under her chin. She stared at me wonderingly with the faintest hint of a smile.  
  
"Here we are." My voice caught low in my throat. I plopped my aching limbs on the step next to her, our knees barely brushing. I offered her my hand and she laced her fingers in mine. She leaned her head against my shoulder.  
  
"So did you remember my underwear?"  
  
I nodded dutifully. "Only the respectable ones. Just like you said."  
  
She looked up at me. "You made it. I'm so glad," she whispered.  
  
"It was nothing. You know what they say. Neither rain, nor snow."  
  
"Maggie's here."  
  
"Yeah, I know. I saw her when I first pulled into the parking lot. Where'd she go?"  
  
"To find us a hotel room. Like I said, it's a long story. Remind me to tell you about it after I sleep for a couple of days."  
  
"Where's Gallant?"  
  
"I sent him off to hit the books. Don't want him to fail his rotation. Of course, if he did, he'd definitely have a future as a high end attaché. He's been amazing. He'd been great to have along on the Titanic. Things might have turned out differently. He's going to meet us back here at oh-eight hundred."  
  
I smiled wryly and pulled her to her feet. We went off in search of Maggie.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
We found two rooms at an all-suites motel chain about a mile from the base. It was "déjà vu all over again" as we checked in and said our good nights. Maggie looked at us with quiet approval. She knew something was up between us. I wonder what Abby had told her, if anything.  
  
This time, however, I was the one who got to be Abby's roommate. Talk about having come a long way from Oklahoma.  
  
She crawled into bed immediately while I sat up and watched The Weather Channel to see how the Windy City was faring in the aftermath of the season's first snowfall.  
  
After awhile, I made my way into the darkened bedroom, still bathed in soft light. She had left the light on for me. Under a mountain of blankets, I could make out her silhouette. She slumbered serenely, her back toward me. I was soothed by the gentle sound of her breathing. I undressed quickly, leaving my clothes next to my half-opened suitcase in an untidy heap on the floor. I'd worry about it in the morning. After turning out the light, I groped in the darkness and climbed into bed. I lay on my back for awhile. I didn't want to wake her. She was sleeping so peacefully. She smelled like warm sugar.  
  
My thoughts drifted back to our unfinished conversation several nights previously.  
  
The question formed in my mind. It was my turn to ask it.  
  
"When did it happen for you, Abby?"  
  
Maybe she'd let me know the answer someday. I wasn't sure I wanted to know just yet.  
  
I found myself drifting off to sleep. Or at least I thought I did. Suddenly, I heard a soft voice in the darkness.  
  
"The day you saw Sobriki again in the ER. The day you turned down my offer of coffee and pie. I wanted to take all of your fear and pain away."  
  
Wait, I hadn't said anything, had I? Was I dreaming? I pinched my finger. Great. Now I was hearing things. Go to sleep Carter.  
  
She rolled over and propped herself up on her elbow, her hair falling softly against the pillow. She traced that tender circle on my chest once more. Underneath her palpable worry for Eric and his uncertain future, there was an unmistakable lightness in her voice. A faint smile formed in the corners of her mouth. I wasn't dreaming. And I know I hadn't uttered a word. Somehow she had channeled my telepathy.  
  
"Things are just going to keep happening, aren't they? Promise me that."  
  
I tried to match the lightness in her voice, even though her very nearness caused my chest to constrict. I was barely breathing.  
  
"I seem to be promising you a lot of things lately."  
  
"I know you have your chaos theory. But there has to be a less cerebral word for it."  
  
There was a pregnant pause.  
  
"Delicious ambiguity?" I said matter-of-factly.  
  
She playfully folded the other half of my pillow over my face, pinning me underneath a tangle of hair and supple skin. She released it and kissed me fully on the lips.  
  
"You're hopeless," she said contentedly, spooning herself behind me.  
  
"G'night John Boy." She squeezed my thigh.  
  
I felt my body relax a little. I thought about the unpredictability of life, of love, of relationships. I thought about how far we had come since that night on the roof, nearly three Valentine's Day's ago, and all the places in between. I thought about how far we still had to go. We still weren't there yet.  
  
Oh, I still wanted to know where she was taking me. But for the first time, the journey seemed enough. At least for now.  
  
As always, she was the last thing I thought of before I fell asleep. I smiled. Tomorrow was another day. I would just sit back and enjoy the ride.  
  
The End  
  
P.S. Let me know what you think. TPTB willing, this is the start of a regular Carter POV post-ep series for the remainder of Season 9. Hopefully, they will continue to lift carby higher and higher and make the job easier. 


	2. Scar Tissue

Title: "Scar Tissue."  
  
  
  
  
  
Description: Post-ep for "Next of Kin." Second chapter in "The Long Way," a series of Season 9 post-eps beginning with "First Snowfall." Carter's POV.  
  
  
  
  
  
Author: KenzieGal (a/k/a It's Always Something)  
  
  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: Carter and Abby do not belong to me - they are the property of the wise and wealthy minds of TPTB at Warner Brothers. No copyright infringement intended.  
  
  
  
  
  
Notes: Thanks to everyone for the helpful and encouraging feedback. When I said, after "First Snowfall," that I hoped to continue this Carter POV series as long as tptb kept up their end of the bargain, the travails of "Next of Kin" weren't exactly what I had in mind. But I'm slowly learning, that when tptb give you lemons, you learn to make lemonade.  
  
  
  
  
  
Special thanks to Lanie (a/k/a Sunni), the world's best - and most prompt - beta-angel. Ever.  
  
  
  
Spoilers: Everything during Season 9 up to and including "Next of Kin."  
  
Credits: The song playing in the background is "Your Body Is A Wonderland" by John Mayer, from his exceptional Room for Squares CD. Somehow it always managed to find its way to the radio airwaves whenever this piece found itself percolating inside my head.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
We got the afternoon  
  
You got this room for two  
  
One thing I've left to do  
  
Discover me  
  
Discovering you  
  
  
  
I entered the lounge, pleased to find it empty. I plopped down on the couch and took a long swig of a Diet Coke. I rubbed my eyes and massaged my weary neck muscles, my fingers not nearly up to the task, as hers would have been.  
  
She was right.  
  
It was always different.  
  
My perspective had changed somewhere between Oklahoma and Nebraska - or perhaps during the points in between. I smiled wryly imagining a map with little pushpins demarking the road trips I'd taken with the Wyzenski family.  
  
It had been Eric's turn this time. Another rug had been pulled out from under her. He had been her rock, a constant supporting player in her lifelong dance with Maggie. Now his role had been stripped away by the disease that bound them together. I had been her willing accomplice not once but twice now, though my role had shifted from concerned friend to supportive lover.  
  
I had left her in our darkened motel room the previous morning as the sun crept up over Omaha to catch an early morning flight back to O'Hare. I could still smell the sweet shampoo in her hair and taste the nicotine on her breath.  
  
I had spoken to her a few times since then. Following the Air Force's decision to provide a medical discharge and forego the court martial, she was bringing Eric back to Chicago, having pulled some strings to get him into a top-notch local day treatment program. Maggie was still tagging along - and due to her persistent fear of flying, the three of them were taking the scenic route back to Union Station via Amtrak.  
  
How long would he stick around? Would he stay on his meds? Could I handle him - both of them - in our lives? Now Abby had two kinfolk who could suddenly, without warning, go round the bend at any time. Double the pleasure. Double the fun.  
  
Who was I kidding?  
  
Face it.  
  
I was besotted.  
  
If I had to, I would follow her follow Maggie and Eric to the ends of the earth. If that's what it took to be with her. To be there for her. I'd be as strong - or as gentle - as she needed me to be.  
  
The door swung open and Susan entered the lounge  
  
"So that's where you've been hiding." She rubbed her temples.  
  
"Tough, day?"  
  
"Uh - yah.  
  
"You've morphed into quite the poohbah around here."  
  
"Well, not by choice. Let's see - Kerry's off trying to lighten Romano's load and Luka's on only when he's not unloading on his bimbo du jour.  
  
"Sounds like you need to dial up the Girl's Club."  
  
"What time's Abby's train getting in, again?"  
  
"Whoa. Don't even think about it. Maggie and Eric are coming back with her, you know."  
  
"Carter, you are so far gone," she punched my arm playfully. "You should see the look on your face. One of my roommates in college used to refer to it as the 'cow face'."  
  
"Who, me? Nah." I tried my best to feign innocence.  
  
"Oh, come on."  
  
"What do you expect me to do -- start mooing?"  
  
"Hey, I find it all very endearing."  
  
"You would."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"Well, as I recall, someone enjoys her role as Cupid."  
  
"Yeah, that's me. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride." She used her fingers to paste a sickeningly sweet smile on her face.  
  
"It'll happen for you. Just when you least expect it."  
  
"Now, you sound like Cookie."  
  
"Your mom? Is that bad?"  
  
"Well, considering the last time she told me that I was actually still dating Dix - you know, the cowboy from Phoenix - I wouldn't say it was a good thing."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"Well, as much as I'd love to continue our little Hallmark moment, I do have an ER to run," she deadpanned. "Give Abby my love," she smiled slyly. With that, she sauntered out the door.  
  
I shook my head, wondering how hard it was going to be to steal moments alone with Abby with Maggie and Eric around.  
  
It didn't matter.  
  
I couldn't wait to have her home.  
  
So I could be whole again.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
One mile to every inch of  
  
Your skin like porcelain  
  
One pair of candy lips and  
  
Your bubblegum tongue  
  
  
  
I stood at the admit desk working on charts. The phones were ringing off the hook. Jerry was juggling what seemed like five lines at once. Leon, Pratt's brother, was having some sort of meltdown on the other side of the desk, preventing Pratt from taking his call from urology.  
  
"County." Jerry put urology on hold and picked up yet another call.  
  
He turned toward me. "Someone's asking for you."  
  
"Did you get a name?"  
  
"Anita Coffee."  
  
I looked up at him, actually trying at first to place the name. Jerry looked back at me with a raised eyebrow, his eyes twinkling.  
  
She hadn't fooled him. Though she had me going there for awhile.  
  
Her back was toward me as I ran out into the ambulance bay and zipped up my jacket. Her hair was pulled back in a braid. My heart leapt into my throat. By now, it was a familiar routine. Mr. Flip, meet Mr. Flop. Mr. Flop, Mr. Flip.  
  
"Is that a pseudonym or a cry for help?"  
  
She turned around to kiss me. Her breath smelled stale from nicotine. She was smoking too much.  
  
"Pretty clever, huh?"  
  
"Hey."  
  
"Hi."  
  
"It's freezing, why didn't you come inside?"  
  
"I didn't feel like dealing with anyone, I guess," she said wrinkling her nose and pushing her bag up onto her shoulder. "Did you get someone to cover for you?"  
  
"Yeah. Is everything OK?"  
  
"Yup. I just needed some company."  
  
Almost in sync, I threw my arm across her shoulder and she threw her arm across my waist as we headed to Doc Magoo's in search of that elusive cup of coffee.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
And if you want love  
  
We'll make it  
  
Swimming in a deep sea  
  
Of blankets  
  
Take all your big plans  
  
And break 'em  
  
This is bound to be a while  
  
  
  
We sat in our now familiar booth. She filled me in on the details of what had happened since she had arrived back in Chicago with Maggie and Eric in tow. It was apparent that the value of Abby's choice of treatment seemed to be lost on her mother and brother.  
  
A waitress came by to refill her coffee. She gulped it quickly.  
  
"So how was it left?"  
  
She leaned back against the window. Her voice was subdued, matching my tone. "She went back to my apartment, I came here. I'll pick him up tonight, we'll have dinner, it'll be fine." she shrugged, crossing her legs and attempting to minimize its significance.  
  
".as soon as she leaves."  
  
I nodded. "What happens then?"  
  
"Then, Eric and I will get into a routine with his treatment. And I'll work days so I can keep an eye on him at night."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"And I'll probably get a bigger apartment, I guess."  
  
"You're going to be roommates, now." I hated the flatness in my voice. I hated that she was back to shouldering the burden all by herself. As if nothing I had done in the past few months had ever mattered.  
  
"Well, I can't just let him wander off and hope for the best. He needs my help." She sounded as if she were talking to a petulant child. She took another sip of coffee.  
  
I nodded, unable to find the words, afraid to risk her wrath.  
  
"You think that's too much?"  
  
I looked away toward the window, unable to meet her gaze.  
  
I tried the tactful approach. "I think that's a responsibility that you could share."  
  
"With who? Maggie?" She practically spit out her name. Her response cut like a knife through my heart, painfully reminding me that that though I had been accepted into the Wyzenski circle, I still wasn't a full-fledged member.  
  
"Huh? Do you know when she would leave us she used to do it when we were sleeping? Did I ever tell you that?"  
  
I shook my head.  
  
"So it became part of our morning routine. We would get up, go pee and check to see if Mom had abandoned us. And on the mornings when she was gone, I was left with my little brother, this skinny little kid who never did anything wrong. And was good and beautiful and sweet and I would have to tell him that everything was going to be OK."  
  
"What would he say?" My voice sounded even more subdued, if that were possible.  
  
"You're a liar."  
  
We sat together in silence several moments longer, each lost in our thoughts, until I picked up the check and paid the waitress.  
  
After touching her cheek outside the diner with a promise to call later, I watched her fade out of view across the street.  
  
A line suddenly filled my head from one of the Norah Jones songs I had listened to on the plane to Nebraska. It seemed appropriate for the moment.  
  
Shoot the moon and miss completely.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
I made my way in the chilly night air down the sidewalk toward her apartment, unsure of what I expected to find.  
  
As I grasped the post at the bottom of the rail and turned up the snow- covered steps, I was startled to see her sitting there, legs perfectly crossed, one black-gloved hand holding a cigarette.  
  
"Every once in awhile, I'll have a really perfect cigarette. You know? Everything about it is perfect. The taste, the moment. Of course, 97 percent of the time, it tastes like crap."  
  
I climbed the steps and sat down one below her.  
  
"It causes cancer."  
  
"That too."  
  
"I left you a message. How'd it go?"  
  
"With what?" She took a long drag on her cigarette, still amused by the cleverness of her soliloquy, and turned towards me.  
  
"With your brother." I looked away as I could feel a long puff of smoke waft the side of my face. At least she wasn't drinking. Not as far as I could tell. "You're going to let me in or do I have to guess? Or."  
  
"Nothing happened."  
  
"Nothing. C'mon." I motioned emphatically with my hand for her to continue.  
  
"Despite the best laid plans, nothing happened. Mostly because they left."  
  
"What?"  
  
"They went off into the sunset together, it was very romantic."  
  
"Wait, your mom and Eric, they're gone?" I didn't know whether to be surprised, upset, elated or relieved.  
  
"You know, I don't really want to talk about this right now because it's ruining my perfect smoke."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
And then, only because on these very same steps, she once promised me that she wouldn't hide anymore, she continued, "It's OK. I'm done." She stood up. "I'd done with the both of them. I'm done with all of it."  
  
She trudged up the steps and stepped into the foyer, leaving the door ajar behind her. At least she had left it open.  
  
"Cancel Christmas."  
  
I guess we wouldn't be getting our families together after all.  
  
I sat there motionless, my eyes riveted to a couple who walked by, pushing a baby carriage.  
  
Would that ever be us? Could we ever be like them?  
  
At the very least, I'd have given anything to trade places with them. Even for a moment.  
  
Anything to be anywhere else.  
  
Anything to be anywhere but where we were.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Your body is a wonderland  
  
Your body is a wonder  
  
(I'll use my hands)  
  
Your body is a wonderland  
  
  
  
Several days passed. Abby floated through them in a fog of quiet melancholy, with me, as had become my standard practice, a two-step shuffle behind.  
  
We went through the daily motions of going to work, treating patients, eating only to avoid starvation and wordlessly collapsing into each other's arms at night under an army of blankets, as if we could never get warm enough. We talked about everything and nothing. Her lovemaking - I still clung to the notion that that's what it was - took on a desperate urgency as if she was trying to exorcize the demons of the recent past with nightly cathartic workouts.  
  
Though she had buried it deep inside of her in a place I dared not tread, the final scene that had played outside the chain locked door of Eric's hotel room, obviously had cut to the marrow. Knowing how much she had loved him, tried to protect him and given up for him, she simply couldn't understand how he could have turned against her. She viewed it as a breach of faith - as though he had irrevocably crossed over some invisible line to Maggie's side.  
  
With Christmas just around the corner, it was a bittersweet time. Up until a few weeks ago, I had had such high hopes for the season, our first as a couple. But ever true to her word, she wanted none of it. So I backed off, no tree, no decorations, no non-alcoholic eggnog, and took all my cues from her. Bah humbug.  
  
Although I had promised to be the constant in her life, it was getting harder with each passing day. I felt hollow inside - like a piece of me had mysteriously taken flight. I wasn't sure how much more I could take.  
  
She had put up a wall between us - exasperating me and giving me a hard on all at the same time.  
  
Tonight, though, she had seemed a bit more upbeat, coquettishly asking at the end of our shift if we could do something "fun." So against my better judgment, I accompanied her to see "Solaris." She had a thing for George Clooney. Afterwards, we had stopped at Starbucks for a nightcap and then walked the short distance to my apartment.  
  
Here we were.  
  
She entered the room wearing a ratty old Northwestern sweatshirt that she had scavenged from the back of my closet and what appeared to be the last of her respectable stash of underwear from the Nebraska trip.  
  
I was already under the covers, lying on my back and staring at the ceiling. She climbed into bed soundlessly and mimicked my pose. It brought back memories of our first tentative nights lying on gurneys in the lockdown-shrouded ER.  
  
"Thanks," she said, turning out the light and reaching over through tired eyes to peck me on the cheek.  
  
"For what?"  
  
"For tonight. For sitting there with me while I lost myself in someone else's story."  
  
"That's what "constant companions" are for," I said lightly. "But next time I get to pick the movie."  
  
"Tired?"  
  
"Beat."  
  
"OK, I'll give you a reprieve from my irresistible advances. But just this once."  
  
"Don't do me any favors."  
  
"OK, I won't." Under the goose down comforter, I could feel her body sidle up to me, her eager fingers rhythmically massaged my abdomen, soothing the dull rumbling in a corner of my belly where my impromptu dinner of popcorn, Raisinettes and espresso hadn't sat particularly well. I could feel her hand groping in the dark, searching the lower left portion of my abdomen and underneath the waistband of my boxers where my back hit the mattress.  
  
I knew what she was looking for. She had been on a treasure hunt of sorts for the past couple of nights. Only I didn't want to go there.  
  
Not tonight.  
  
In what I thought, was a smooth, subtle move, I gently redirected her inquiring hands a little farther southward, hoping she'd catch my drift.  
  
Obviously it was a move I hadn't yet perfected, as I felt her deliberately unclasp my hand and resume her careful probe.  
  
She hadn't intended on meeting her match on this one. I pushed her hand away, more firmly this time. Maybe a little bit too firmly, slapping it loudly against her inner thigh.  
  
"Jesus, Carter."  
  
She sat up in one fell swoop and turned on the light.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Damn baby  
  
You frustrate me  
  
I know you're mine all mine  
  
But you look so good it hurts sometimes  
  
  
  
She glared at me, her eyes crunched up, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness.  
  
"What was that all about?"  
  
"What was what all about?"  
  
"Don't play games with me."  
  
"Abby, trust me. You don't want to go there. When I hit the wall with you, I've learned to stop pushing. Give me the same courtesy on this one. "  
  
"No, you don't want me to go there." She paused, then continued. "Just give me one good reason. Why won't you ever let me see them?"  
  
I thought about it for a moment. "They're not exactly souvenirs of a time in my life I'm particularly proud of."  
  
"Talk to me, Carter. Let me help you."  
  
"Oh, just like you've been talking to me? You should take a look at yourself. Haven't you learned that you can't always fix what you perceive to be everyone else's problems by doing what you think is best for them? Besides, I'm not broken." There was no mistaking the mockery in my voice.  
  
I regretted it instantly.  
  
I sat up and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Sorry. That was uncalled for."  
  
She bit her lip, a wounded look creeping across her face.  
  
"Abby, you let me see your scars, but you won't let me inside of them. They're yours and yoursalone. You wrap yourself so tight around them, how can you expect anyone to push through? Why won't you let me in? Just because I wasn't there when you were growing up? Because as heir to the Carter family fortune, I can't possibly understand what you're going through? I think you've let me in further than you've ever let anyone, but you're still out there all alone. And so am I."  
  
She sat there quietly, digesting my comments. In a small voice, she said. "I know. But trust me, I'm working on it."  
  
Her eyes, wide and luminous, bore into mine. Mirrored in them, she sensed that my steely resolve was crumbling. Without a word, they gave her tacit permission. What was it about this woman that could send all my defenses packing?  
  
"Roll over."  
  
I obliged.  
  
She straddled my back, resting the soft cheeks of her butt just below my own. Her fingers, soft as feathers, gently traced the two deep, jagged scars where Sobricki's knife had penetrated skin. Once an angry red, their color had softened a bit over time, though they still puckered my skin in a way my eyes would never get used to. From there, her hands moved toward the much neater incision, the remnant of my colostomy and Anspaugh and Benton's valiant effort to save my left kidney.  
  
I laid very still beneath her. Please, I thought. Don't be repulsed.  
  
If she was, she gave no indication. There was a graceful symmetry to her touch as though she were trying to rub some terrible wrong out of the ravaged scars.  
  
She lay over me, kissing the back of my head, then rolled over and sat up, hugging her knees to her chest. I propped myself up on one elbow and turned toward her.  
  
"So what do you think?" my voice was barely audible.  
  
"Can you handle the brutal truth?"  
  
"I guess so."  
  
"You need to bulk up on the carbs. You're looking a little skinny." She smiled, unwrapping her arms from her legs and stretching out her toes. "Just kidding."  
  
In a wistful voice, she continued, "Do you want to really know what I think? I think that If I live to be a very old woman, I don't think I'll ever again see the entire ER pull together or fight harder to save two patients' lives."  
  
I couldn't help the old bitterness from creeping into my voice. "Couldn't save Lucy. Couldn't save me from what happened later."  
  
"Now who's full of self-pity? The scars are part of you, Carter. They'll always be part of you. But they don't define who you are."  
  
"I used to like to think I left them in Atlanta."  
  
"What do you think now?" There was a challenge in her voice.  
  
I thought for a moment, collecting my thoughts. "It took me a long time to realize it. The scars are what make me whole. They've helped me come full circle."  
  
"You've lost me."  
  
I kept going. One last attempt to shoot the moon.  
  
"Neither one of us had a choice in where we came from. But we can choose where we end up and how we get there."  
  
I looked at her with absolute certainty, trying hard to gauge the reaction on her face. Searching desperately for a glimmer of knowingness.  
  
Her face gave away nothing.  
  
"Think about it. You may not think so now, but you've needed everything. Every one of Maggie's benders. Everything you tried to protect Eric from. Every drink. Every hangover. Every AA meeting. Every miserable moment with Richard. Every night you spent in Luka's hotel room. Every night you spent alone. So that someday you could be whole. So that you could appreciate what you have now. And where I hope you want to go. With me. Always, always with me."  
  
I still couldn't read her face. What if the tables had been turned? What if it was too late? What if she had already slipped back into the darkness?  
  
There was no going back. I lay there on the precipice, gasping for air.  
  
At long last, she broke the silence.  
  
"Take me there," she whispered, rolling over on her back and pulling me on top of her.  
  
And so, her lips melting into mine, she began her journey, wanting nothing more, I knew, than to wrap herself in the solace of my steadfast convictions.  
  
  
  
Something 'bout the way  
  
Your hair falls in your face  
  
I love the shape you take when crawling  
  
Towards the pillowcase  
  
You tell me where to go and  
  
Though I might leave to find it  
  
I'll never let your head hit the bed  
  
Without my hand behind it  
  
* * * * * * 


	3. Taking Flight

Title: "Taking Flight."  
  
  
  
  
  
Description: Post-ep for "Hindsight." Third chapter in "The Long Way," a series of Season 9 post-eps beginning with "First Snowfall." Carter's POV.  
  
  
  
  
  
Author: KenzieGal (a/k/a It's Always Something)  
  
  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: Carter and Abby do not belong to me - they are the property of the wise and wealthy minds of TPTB at Warner Brothers. No copyright infringement intended.  
  
  
  
  
  
Notes: Unfortunately, not a wealth of carby material here, in keeping with the eppy's Lukacentric focus. I tried to keep it simple, just using the sweetest of strokes to touch up the edges. It'll be an interesting four- week hiatus - hope everyone enjoys their respective holiday seasons. Looking forward (with fingers crossed) to the promise of what the new year brings.  
  
  
  
As always, props to Lanie (a/k/a Sunni) for her unmatched beta skills. And to her and Pemberley for keeping me in touch with my better angels.  
  
  
  
Spoilers: Everything during Season 9 up to and including "Hindsight."  
  
Credits: The song playing in the background is "Come Away With Me" by Norah Jones, the title track on her critically acclaimed CD of the same name. Another track, "Shoot the Moon," provided the backdrop for Susan's solitary dinner and Luka's barstool encounter with the blonde prostitute in "Tell Me Where It Hurts."  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"Can I get you something to drink?"  
  
A Boston-laced accent voice broke through the even drone of the engines, once again interrupting my forty winks.  
  
I gazed out the window from my first class vantage point and checked my watch. By my calculations, we were somewhere over Ohio.  
  
Déjà vu all over again.  
  
Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I politely asked the flight attendant for bottled water.  
  
Sleep deprivation aside, there were things that were different about this flight from the last one I had taken out of O'Hare. For starters, I had left Abby back in Chicago. And instead of a charming older woman, I had the misfortune of drawing a seat assignment next to a young overworked attorney complaining to everyone within earshot about being sent to Boston during the Christmas crunch to take his first deposition.  
  
At least this time I had come prepared.  
  
I pulled the familiar CD out of my satchel bag and popped it in my walkman.  
  
I leaned back against the headrest, closed my eyes and dialed up the Abby channel.  
  
I had a lot to think about.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Come away with me in the night  
  
Come away with me  
  
And I will write you a song  
  
  
  
"So you'll come? I'm having a bunch of people over on Christmas Day. You know, the widows and orphans. Those who can't get home to their families. And those who don't want to."  
  
"I'll try. I'm not sure what familial obligations Gamma is expecting me to fill this year when I get back."  
  
Susan and I strolled along the sunny side of Michigan Avenue on a blustery December day sipping coffee through gloved hands. She carried a large shopping bag from Burberry.  
  
"Still can't convince her to go with you?"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Oprah. Duh.Abby."  
  
"Nope. It probably isn't a good idea this year anyway."  
  
I had repeatedly dangled an invitation to accompany me to visit my father in Boston where he was closing a major year-end deal. It was his first Christmas alone and he had sounded like he could use some company. She seemed pleased that I had asked her, but I could sense that her heart wasn't in it.  
  
"How's she holding up?"  
  
"OK, all things considered. She tends to talk about them in spurts. Not in the present tense, mind you. Just recollections from the ghosts of Maggie and Eric past."  
  
"You're so good for her right now, Carter."  
  
"Right. I feel like Dr. Phil minus the hysterical female fan base."  
  
She giggled.  
  
"Why? She talk to you?" I asked.  
  
"A little. Her feelings are still pretty raw. She's just trying to get through it all the best she can. And the holidays certainly aren't helping."  
  
"You'll keep an eye on her while I'm gone? From the evil predators who lurk among the Girls' Club?"  
  
"Actually, you would have been very proud of our last Girls' Club outing. We all had a very nice grown-up lunch at the Ritz Carlton. I even got out my headband and pearls. Couldn't tell the difference between us and the mavens of Lake Forest."  
  
I pointed at the shopping bag. "Think she'll like it?"  
  
"What's not to like? It'll keep her warm all winter in this frozen hellhole I can't believe I'm calling home again."  
  
"So what did she get me?"  
  
"That's for me to know and you to find out. Seriously though, I think it's nice how you both agreed not to go overboard in the gift-giving department."  
  
I thought about the second gift I had stored in the bottom of my locker.  
  
"Uh, yeah." I tried not to sound too distracted as the sun disappeared behind the clouds.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
I want to walk with you  
  
On a cloudy day  
  
In field where the yellow grass grows  
  
Knee-high  
  
So won't you try to come  
  
  
  
I walked into the living room carrying my packed suitcase, amazed that everything I needed for my trip to Boston could be found in her apartment.  
  
She was sitting on the couch clad only in her bathrobe, drinking a cup of coffee, her hair still damp from her recent shower.  
  
"So much for not going anywhere," she said sardonically, her lips curling into a tight half smile.  
  
"Still not too late to change your mind." I dropped my suitcase near the door and sat down next to her, inhaling a gentle whiff of apricot-laced shampoo.  
  
"What, and leave all of this holiday cheer?" She gestured toward a tiny boxwood tree that she had brought home a couple of days ago in a moment of apparent weakness, her one concession to the notion that Christmas was happening at all this year.  
  
"No, it'll give you some one-on-one time with your dad and me a chance to catch up on my sleep." She punched my arm playfully.  
  
Despite the fact that I would be back in Chicago in time for Christmas, she had insisted on exchanging presents tonight before we attended Susan's holiday party, I worked the graveyard shift and then caught an early morning flight out to Logan. Something about needing something to hold onto in my absence. And so I indulged her. Surprise, surprise.  
  
I glanced under my wrist to where my watch had slid into its familiar resting place. We were due at Susan's in less than an hour. I walked into her bedroom, reached under the bed and planted the oversized festively wrapped Burberry box at her feet.  
  
"You know, you really should do something about the dust bunnies under your bed."  
  
She looked at the box, then at me, and smiled.  
  
"So how long has this been sleeping under me?"  
  
"Since yesterday."  
  
She had laid a small, neatly wrapped package on the coffee table in my absence.  
  
"You go first."  
  
She carefully unwrapped the box, taking great pains to undo the tape at either side of the package. She stopped for a moment, a faraway look crossing her face.  
  
"On the few major gift-giving occasions - Christmas, birthdays - when Maggie had her act together, she'd always insist that we save the wrapping paper. She loved to line our drawers with it."  
  
I covered her hand with mine for a moment, then withdrew it so she could fold the plaid paper into a neat rectangle.  
  
She stared at the unwrapped box and shook it gently. "Bigger than a bread box."  
  
Finally, she lifted the lid.  
  
I had gotten her a cashmere blanket from Burberry. The sales clerk had described the shade as "eggplant plaid."  
  
"Something to wraps its arms around you while I'm away."  
  
She stroked its soft fringes, then reached over and brushed my lips with her own. "It's lovely. Thank you. I'll use it tonight. I may even share it with you when you get back." Her kiss was warm and sincere.  
  
"Your turn." She handed me my box.  
  
I quickly tore open the paper. "This is how we did it at my house."  
  
Inside a white box, I pulled out a round pewter case, about six inches wide. It opened up to reveal a small travel alarm clock on one side and a picture frame on the other. She had inserted a photo that Eric had taken of the two of us on the steps of the art museum during his visit with Jody. I had one arm around her, her head resting lovingly on my shoulder.  
  
"Get it? The timing thing," she said twirling her forefingers around in the air.  
  
"Timing has always been a problem for us," I postulated, feigning seriousness.  
  
"Not any more. Turn it over."  
  
I closed the case and flipped it over. On the back, she had inscribed,  
  
To JTC, From AWL  
  
"Timing is everything."  
  
Merry Christmas 2002  
  
"Thank you. I'll try it out in Boston."  
  
She got up, thrusting her hands deep into the pockets of her robe. "Well, this was fun. I guess I better go get dressed."  
  
"Not so fast," I said pulling another box out of my jacket pocket. "I have one more."  
  
"Carter, we agreed on only one present."  
  
"Yeah, but rules were made to be broken." I thrust the box into her hands. "Go ahead, open it."  
  
This time, she tore the package open, crumpling the shiny gold paper into a neat ball. She paused for a moment before lifting the lid of the blue velvet box.  
  
She stared at the contents wordlessly.  
  
"Guess it was too hard to find a tornado."  
  
"Do you like it?"  
  
"It's beautiful. Thank you."  
  
She lifted the silver chain up into the light. Dangling from the end was a butterfly with a strand of tiny pearls running down the middle. She fumbled with the clasp, then handed it to me. I placed the chain around her, my fingers lingering for a moment at the nape of her neck.  
  
"I've been rethinking my theory."  
  
"So now, you're rewriting history."  
  
"Something like that. You're not the chaos I originally thought you were. You're much more like the butterfly. Seems like once you flapped your wings, nothing has ever been the same."  
  
"And when exactly did these wings take flight?"  
  
"Hard to say." I stuck my tongue in my cheek, trying hard to find the right words without revealing too much.  
  
"Give me a hint."  
  
"Not now. We should go. But sometime soon we'll finish this conversation."  
  
She fingered the butterfly that perfectly filled the hollow of her throat, then disappeared into her bedroom to get dressed.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Come away with me on a bus  
  
Come away where they can't tempt us  
  
With their lies  
  
  
  
We gathered in a circle in Susan's living room opening our Secret Santa gifts. Abby was seated in a club chair to my left, her legs crossed, nursing a cup of coffee, her face bathed in soft light. She looked beautiful tonight behind shining eyes and a kittenish smile, her hair delicately pulled back from her face.  
  
For the first time, I felt like we were a couple. And judging from the looks Pratt was giving Deb and Gallant was giving Harkins, it seemed like we might soon have some company.  
  
Though we had mingled among our co-workers, exchanging holiday pleasantries and playful banter in a comfortable milieu far removed from the hubbub of the ER, we were never very far out of each other's flight patterns. It was a moment I wanted to savor.  
  
All at once, I was jerked back to reality as Chuny crossed the room to hand me my present.  
  
"Well, this one is for Dr. Carter."  
  
I shook the small square box before opening it.  
  
"Toy handcuffs." I twirled them in the air. The group erupted into a chorus of whistles and catcalls.  
  
"The gift that keeps on giving," Deb opined.  
  
Abby leaned over toward me, suddenly anxious to leave. "Are we done?"  
  
"No, you have to open your present," Susan chirped.  
  
"Oh, I've still got the rubber sheets from last year."  
  
Pratt handed Abby a clumsily wrapped package topped with a green bow.  
  
"Let's see who it came from," I said.  
  
"Earrings. I can tell it's earrings," she smirked as she stared at it.  
  
"C'mon, c'mon, open it up." Chuny was growing impatient.  
  
"Is it edible?" Susan wanted to know.  
  
Abby removed the paper revealing a winter scene inside a snow globe.  
  
From the crowd, a quiet round of ohs, ooos and hmms.  
  
"A snow globe." She turned it upside down, seemingly nonplussed.  
  
"Who gave it?" Deb asked.  
  
Susan shrugged.  
  
"Well, I guess your Santa will have to stay a secret," I said as we both stood up. Abby asked Susan where she'd put her coat.  
  
"You're not leaving, are you?" Susan replied looking disappointed.  
  
"I've got to work tonight," I said to a litany of groans. Abby chimed in that she had to work in the morning before disappearing into the bedroom.  
  
I politely inquired about Pratt and Gallant's respective holiday plans. When Abby still hadn't reappeared after several minutes, I knocked twice on the bedroom door before entering.  
  
In the middle of the room, I found her chatting with an obviously drunken Luka.  
  
There was a time in the not too distant past when the sight of her so close to him would have evoked a palpable twinge deep inside of me. But no more. The tide had shifted. We were together now.  
  
"Ready to go?"  
  
"Yup," she replied heading toward me.  
  
"Luka. Missing all the fun."  
  
"Yeah. You should stay."  
  
"Gotta go."  
  
She turned back toward him in the entryway. "Are you working tomorrow?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Lucky for you," I commented.  
  
"Lucky for the patients," he said wistfully.  
  
We drove away in an uneasy silence. At the first stop sign, I placed a hand on her knee, squeezing it.  
  
"Looks like you found your Secret Santa."  
  
She rolled her eyes, then looked at me thoughtfully, apparently surprised by the lack of jealousy in my voice.  
  
"Luka's choice in the gift department spoke volumes about how he views me and our relationship." The words dripped out matter-of-factly, matching the evenness of my tone.  
  
"How so?"  
  
"Trying to always capture me in some darkened freeze frame moment. Like he wished he could keep me in some sort of weird protective bubble. Maybe that's how he felt about his family too. You know, how does that song go -- 'Preserve your memories, they're all that's left for you.' Anyway, he just never "got" me. I'm not sure he ever even tried to."  
  
"It's not the easiest thing in the world, you know."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Getting you. Look how long it's taken me to figure you out." My voice was earnest, in search of validation.  
  
She smiled thoughtfully. "Ah, but you're a more persistent sort. That's the whole point. It's a way you have with people. Most of all with me. And one I've never really thanked you enough for. My life is such a mess sometimes. And there you are in my little push me-pull me world. I know it can't be easy. Or much fun, especially lately. Yet you give me space one minute and hold me all night long the next. You're pushing all the right buttons, these days, Carter. You're giving me exactly what I need."  
  
I pulled up in front of her building. I went around to the passenger side to open the door for her, pulling her out onto the sidewalk. She held onto my hand as she moved ahead of me, pulling me up to the top step.  
  
I touched her cheek with my thumb. "And when you need more than that, you'll let me know?"  
  
"Yeah. And I'll go one better than that. Someday I'll return the favor."  
  
"Promise?"  
  
"Promise."  
  
The moment, as in the case of the one surrounding her perfect cigarette, seemed as right as it ever would be.  
  
"I love you, Abby."  
  
Her eyes, warm puddles that could melt butter, whispered she loved me back.  
  
Her lips, salty and sweet, gently reminded me that she "got" me too.  
  
Butterfly kisses.  
  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Come away with me and we'll kiss  
  
On a mountaintop  
  
Come away with me  
  
And I'll never stop loving you  
  
  
  
As we made our descent into Logan Airport, the captain's voice boomed loud overhead requesting the flight attendants to prepare for landing.  
  
I turned off the portable CD player and pulled off the headphones.  
  
"I want to know where it's taking me." I could hear my voice mouthing the words from that seemingly long ago morning along the shores of Lake Michigan.  
  
What did I hope to find there?  
  
A picture perfect moment, frozen in time, like the one in Abby's snow globe?  
  
Or a chance to see what the road passed by in all its uncertain glory?  
  
After the ebb and flow of the past few months, was I any closer to knowing?  
  
If you love something, set it free.  
  
Where had I heard that before?  
  
Maybe, Susan was right. I should write for Hallmark.  
  
I gingerly fingered the clock resting in my lap, its silver case shining brightly in the noontime sun.  
  
Time would tell.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
And I want to wake up with the rain  
  
Falling on a tin roof  
  
While I'm safe there in your arms  
  
So all I ask is for you  
  
To come away with me in the night  
  
Come away with me  
  
* * * * * * * * * * 


	4. Double Entendre

Title: "Double Entendre."  
  
  
  
  
  
Description: Post-ep for "A Little Help From My Friends." Fourth chapter in "The Long Way," a series of Season 9 post-eps beginning with "First Snowfall." Carter's POV.  
  
  
  
  
  
Author: KenzieGal (a/k/a It's Always Something)  
  
  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: Carter and Abby do not belong to me - they are the property of the wise and wealthy minds of TPTB at Warner Brothers. No copyright infringement intended.  
  
  
  
  
  
Notes: Once again, not a wealth of carby material from tptb in this eppy. I tried to keep it short. And simple. And angsty. Seems that's the way the carby cookie's going to be crumbling for awhile.  
  
The tune playing in the background is Billy Joel's "A Matter of Trust."  
  
Sweet nothings to Lanie, my beta extraordinaire. And to Pemberley, my carby alter ego.  
  
Spoilers: Everything during Season 9 up to and including "A Little Help From My Friends."  
  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
I know you're an emotional girl  
  
It took a lot for you not to lose your faith in this world  
  
I can't offer you proof  
  
But you're gonna face a moment of truth  
  
It's hard when you're always afraid  
  
You must recover when another belief is betrayed  
  
So break my heart if you must  
  
It's a matter of trust  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
  
I leaned my head against the window as the El inched its way through the winter darkness. A light snow continued to fall.  
  
Every bone in my body ached. Chalk it up to another crazy day at County. From the cantankerous old doctor attempting to sew his own sutures to Coco and Captain Viagra as Chen had dubbed them, it had been a classic example of a day that tried a man's soul. Or at least the soul of this ER doc. Not to mention the gnawing emptiness that seemed to be burning a hole in my heart.  
  
I closed my eyes as the train lurched to a stop. Where was I? And where was I going?  
  
Face it, we were stuck in neutral.  
  
We.  
  
Me.  
  
Abby.  
  
Us.  
  
I dialed up a mental image of her.  
  
Earlier that day, she had approached me tentatively, asking if I would mind taking the El home while she ran an errand. No mention was made of the nature of her sudden rendezvous. Her tone was flat and cryptic, shorthand for "Don't go there, Carter." I stoically attempted not to read too much into it. For all I knew, she was planning a shopping expedition in search of a little black dress for a charity gala Gamma had roped me into attending next week.  
  
In the end, I had reluctantly acquiesced, preoccupied with the sketchy details of Pratt's latest plight and was perhaps a bit shorter with her than I should have been. Besides, I had an errand of my own to run.  
  
It had been a quick trip on the El to Pratt's apartment. As always, you could set your watch by Gallant's directions.  
  
"Running a little clinic out of the apartment?"  
  
At first glance, despite my steely resolve to unleash my mounting frustration on Pratt, the scene inside his apartment - Leon sprawled on his stomach, bloody and whimpering - had spooked me. With a sudden jolt, my mind had scrolled back through a mental montage of distant memories until it froze on a similar vignette: Anna DelAmico poised inside the entry way to my cousin Chase's apartment in full co-conspirator mode as I struggled to save him from an apparent drug overdose.  
  
Though it wasn't smart, as I had repeatedly remarked, rather than fleeing back into the night, I had reluctantly helped Pratt stabilize his brother. Fortunately, the knife had missed his vital organs and we were able to patch him up nicely in our makeshift dispensary.  
  
And once Pratt had filled in the blanks about Leon and the circumstances surrounding the injury, all the pieces had fallen into place.  
  
Another poster child for family dysfunction walked among us in the ER, his secret uncovered.  
  
Though I still couldn't be sure that I had gotten through to him, our conversation afterwards outside his apartment as I prepared to leave was probably the longest we had ever had since he had first strode into the ER. The poignant back story he had finally revealed spoke volumes about his attitude, his behavior and the reasons why he had probably decided to become a doctor.  
  
"Do you have any help?"  
  
"No, I've been doing it on my own for years. I'm good at that."  
  
"Well, we work as a team. We cover for each other, lean on each other. The job's too big to do solo."  
  
"If you can't see it that way, you should be a surgeon. Or a superhero. Or something else that doesn't require trust."  
  
"I've never been big on trust."  
  
"You know what that turns into. Nobody trusts you either. Self sufficiency is a good thing. But it's not the only thing. Asking for help when you need it doesn't make you weak."  
  
Seems like I had had my fill lately of intimate revelations on apartment stoops.  
  
I replayed my end of the conversation in my mind.  
  
There was a word for it.  
  
Double entendre.  
  
Double meaning.  
  
Which words had been meant for Pratt? And which words had been meant for Abby?  
  
How much was I trying to help Pratt realize the error his ways? And how much was I trying to sort out the pent up frustration over Abby's slow but steady withdrawal since she had returned from Nebraska?  
  
* * * * *  
  
This time you've got nothing to lose  
  
You can take it, you can leave it  
  
Whatever you choose  
  
I won't hold anything back  
  
And I'll walk away a fool or a king  
  
Some love is just a lie of the mind  
  
It's make believe until it's only a matter of time  
  
And some might have learned to adjust  
  
But then it never was a matter of trust  
  
* * * * *  
  
Deep down, I knew that I was on the receiving end of everything she was capable of giving right now.  
  
But for the first time since the lockdown, it was hardly enough to sustain me.  
  
Would it ever be enough?  
  
How long could I keep waiting for her feelings - or at least her willingness to express them - catch up with mine?  
  
One more day?  
  
Forever?  
  
For the moment, a question I didn't know the answer to.  
  
The El slowed to a crawl as it approached the familiar stop.  
  
I picked up my satchel bag.  
  
But my feet stood still.  
  
I could not go gently into that good night.  
  
Not to her.  
  
Not tonight.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Some love is just a lie of the soul  
  
A constant battle for the ultimate state of control  
  
But you've heard lie upon lie  
  
There can hardly be a question of why  
  
Some love is just a lie of the heart  
  
The cold remains of what began with a passionate start  
  
But that can't happen to us  
  
Because it's always been a matter of trust  
  
  
  
* * * * * 


	5. Worlds Colliding

Title: "Worlds Colliding."  
  
  
  
  
  
Description: Post-ep for "Saint in the City." Fifth chapter in "The Long Way," a series of Season 9 post-eps beginning with "First Snowfall." Carter's POV.  
  
  
  
  
  
Author: KenzieGal (a/k/a It's Always Something)  
  
  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: Carter and Abby do not belong to me - they are the property of the wise and wealthy minds of TPTB at Warner Brothers. No copyright infringement intended.  
  
  
  
  
  
Notes: At long last, a more Carter-centric episode. Though it may lack originality, the opportunity was too tempting to try to get inside Carter's head and hear what he was thinking as the real dialogue unfolded.  
  
  
  
Billy Joel continues to be my carby muse. The tune playing in the background is "She's Got A Way."  
  
Once again, kudos to Lanie, Pemberley and the posters at The ER Exchange who continue to inspire and delight.  
  
Coming in February: Carby crossover post-eps with SunniSkies (a/k/a Lanie).  
  
Spoilers: Everything during Season 9 up to and including "Saint in the City."  
  
  
  
  
  
Please read and review. And enjoy. If you do, let me know. If you don't, let me know, too.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
  
She's got a way about her  
  
I don't know what it is  
  
But I know that I can't live without her  
  
  
  
A waft of cold air hit me as I exited the 77th Street Clinic and climbed into the Jeep. I let the engine warm a little, then quickly sped out onto the darkened roadway, tapping my foot to the remaining strains of Jason Mraz & The Matrix's "The Remedy."  
  
At a red light, I idly massaged my temples, an attempt to ease the steady throbbing that had begun as I ducked the barbs that had been thrown my way earlier that night, somewhere between "Don't you think you're getting a bit long in the tooth for the disaffected youth role," and "There's still a lot of kids freezing to death every winter, Carter."  
  
Hardly the evening I had imagined when I donned my tux in the ER lounge what now seemed like ages ago. Not by a long shot.  
  
I had pictured a quick appearance at symphony hall to present the oversized check, some friendly posturing for the grateful audience, a bit of dutiful small talk and a peck on the cheek for Gamma and her minions, and a late dinner with Abby who would be just as anxious to escape the maddening crowd.  
  
Instead I had been treated to a guilt-inducing request from Gamma to at long last embrace my birthright, an uncomfortable evening long diatribe from Abby on how I might make better use of that birthright and a late night rejection from a cantankerous old doctor who had been quick to dismiss my birthright as a tool of "white, liberal guilt."  
  
Talk about worlds colliding.  
  
I was surprised that she had taken the invitation so seriously. I smiled at the thought of her going to great lengths to properly primp for the evening. The little black dress. The stiletto heels. The hair. The make- up. None of it had been wasted on me.  
  
She had clearly reveled in the sneak peek she had been given into what passed for high society in the Windy City.  
  
Amazing what a different person she became when she remembered to check her baggage at the door.  
  
Not that I had ever expected her to act like some waiflike arm candy or wide-eyed ingénue.  
  
What I hadn't bargained for, though, was her ability to see right through me. And the courage to call me on it.  
  
I should have known to never underestimate her ability to infuriate me. Or to astound me.  
  
I knew that some of my words must have stung. Deep down, I knew she was right about everything. But after the way she had seemed to pull away lately after the latest go-round with Maggie and Eric, I still felt she had no right to tell me what to do.  
  
She may have thought she knew me as Carter, the devoted ER doc and caring friend or John, her gentle lover. But she had no idea what it was like to live my life as John Truman Carter IV.  
  
Gently pumping the brakes at the intersection where I would normally turn toward her apartment, I pondered my next move.  
  
Another fork in the road. I thought back to the night last week on the El when forward motion had failed me and I instead sat paralyzed as the train pulled away from her stop.  
  
Which way to go from here?  
  
Before I could know the answer, I had to go back and think some more about the question.  
  
* * * * *  
  
She's got a way of pleasin'  
  
I don't know what it is  
  
But there doesn't have to be a reason  
  
Anywhere  
  
  
  
I sauntered toward the admit desk, hoping to unload the patient that stood between me and our night on the town, still craning my neck in the hope of finding comfort in the collar of my tuxedo shirt.  
  
"Hot date?" Susan clucked as she raised her eyebrows at me.  
  
"No, I gotta give a check at this symphony fundraiser."  
  
"Lifestyles of the rich and famous, baby."  
  
I waved the folder at her with the sweetest smile I could muster. "Look at what the patient fairy brought you."  
  
"No, nah, nah, nah."  
  
"Mrs. Hawks, 44, fever, cough times three days."  
  
"I'm juggling 10 patients already."  
  
I persisted anyway. "Just waiting for a chest film, if it comes back clear, write her a little script, send her home, easy dispo."  
  
"OK, good, it's probably just the flu, give it to Pratt, he'll hate it." Bingo. Charm will get you everywhere.  
  
"Done."  
  
I spied Abby out of the corner of my eye, striding purposefully toward the lounge, armed with black high heels and a garment bag.  
  
She eyed me in my tux. "Ten minutes."  
  
"You two have fun," Susan smiled giving us the once over.  
  
I fell into step behind her. "You sure you want to go?" I said, all the while wondering which version of Abby would be showing up for the evening.  
  
"Definitely. Free canapé. What is a canapé, anyway?" Hmmm. Lighthearted Abby, perhaps?  
  
I still couldn't get comfortable in my collar. Before I could answer, she continued, "Don't worry, I'll use the right fork." Add self-deprecating Abby to the mix.  
  
I tried to lighten the mood a little. "Next time we'll do something fun. Next time we'll do something that you want to do."  
  
"Oh, you mean like miniature golf or bowling. Things my people enjoy doing. It's too bad 'Cats' closed," she mused entering the lounge.  
  
"Shut up."  
  
Looked like I should make room for irreverent Abby as well.  
  
I braced myself for a wild ride.  
  
* * * * *  
  
She's got a smile that heals me  
  
I don't know what it is  
  
But I have to laugh when she reveals me  
  
  
  
I watched her intently as she hunched over to scrutinize a model of the new and improved Carter Symphony Hall with childlike curiosity.  
  
"The real one will be bigger."  
  
"I hope so," she said grinning and straightening up.  
  
My eyes gave her an admiring once over. I'm not sure what I had expected, but her look had bowled me over. She had definitely come a long way from her pink bridesmaid's dress.  
  
A waiter appeared with hors d'oeuvres. She took one, thanking him and waved it at me before biting into it. "Have you tried these? They're like perfect little salty things."  
  
"Don't fill up on those," I advised, eliciting quiet laughter. My heart lurched at the sight of the smile that could light up any room. "With any luck we might get out of here early enough to get some real food."  
  
We strolled toward the crowd. I scanned the sea of unfamiliar faces for a sign of Gamma. Despite how much I loathed cocktail party chitchat, the whole scene was surprisingly familiar. I felt unexpectedly in my element. I brushed the thought aside.  
  
"How much money are they trying to raise?" she inquired.  
  
"58. I know we're throwing in 10."  
  
"Thousand?" Obviously a shorthand that she didn't understand.  
  
"Million," I said breaking the news as gently as I could.  
  
She paused, a little embarrassed at her faux paus.  
  
"Right," she replied attempting a gracious recovery. "So I guess that means you'll get great seats forever?"  
  
"Gamma will." I did my best to distance myself from the project. I wasn't sure why.  
  
"What do you do with $58 million dollars?"  
  
"You get architectural significance. I mean what's the point of building a cultural edifice if you're not going to prove your civic superiority?"  
  
"Well, that's a lot of civic superiority." She stopped in her tracks, weighing the idea in her head, as though it was a concept worthy of serious consideration.  
  
Once again, I tried to lighten the mood. "Hey, you know, McNulty's clinic is not too far from here. What do you think he would do with 58 million bucks?"  
  
She took the bait. "Hot hors d'oeuvres in his waiting room?"  
  
Just then, Gamma and Steve, her valet and the evening's escort of choice, approached us. It seemed odd to see her on the arm of someone other than my Grandfather.  
  
"John," she greeted me. She seemed older and more fragile than I remembered, even though I had had dinner with her just last week.  
  
I kissed her cheek and shook Steve's hand. "Hello Gamma. Hi Steve."  
  
Before I could say a word, Gamma turned to Abby. "I'm Millicent Carter, John's grandmother."  
  
Abby hesitated, perhaps in search of some titular significance from me to attach to her presence. I stood there tongue-tied.  
  
She forged ahead on her own. "Hi, um, Abby Lockhart."  
  
"Gamma, you've met Abby before," I said suddenly finding my voice.  
  
Unfortunately, Gamma wasn't or was choosing not to make the connection. "Oh, I'm sorry. So many people in John's life." Her voice trailed off.  
  
Ouch. That had to hurt.  
  
Abby and I exchanged looks. If she was disappointed, she wasn't letting on. I wasn't sure whether she'd be more upset over what she viewed as Gamma's selective memory lapse or the fact that I hadn't clued Gamma in to the fact that she was more than just the flavor of the month.  
  
"Don't you look beautiful?" Gamma attempted a gracious recovery.  
  
Once again, Abby rose to the occasion, attempting to interject some lighthearted humor into the conversation.  
  
"What exactly are canapés?" I mean, are they different from...appetizers?"  
  
Gamma looked stumped. "I'm not sure, dear." I turned toward Abby, removing myself from Gamma's line of vision, and shot her a look of repressed laughter. She rolled her eyes at me.  
  
Suddenly, Gamma's tone grew clipped and businesslike. Time to cut to the chase.  
  
"There's a foundation board meeting Thursday, John. Can you come?"  
  
She was nothing if not persistent. I had turned her down at dinner last week. She knew that and I knew that. Still, she was trying to call me on it, trying to embarrass me in front of Abby and Steve, hoping to catch me in a moment of weakness.  
  
"No, thank you."  
  
"I'd appreciate it. We're electing new officers." As if our prior conversation had never taken place.  
  
"Oh, well. I always thought that was a sort of "whoever's in the bathroom gets elected president" kind of thing."  
  
More subtle humor though the role of dutiful grandson was getting harder to play. I could see Abby's attention alternating between us. I wanted to whisper to Abby, "Watch. Next she's going to ask me to be treasurer."  
  
Gamma remained undaunted. "I'm stepping down. I'd like you to take your father's place as treasurer."  
  
Bingo. Still, I continued the charade. "How did dad get off so easy?"  
  
She continued the ruse. "I've asked your father to take my place as president. Don't you think you're getting a bit long in the tooth for the disaffected youth role, John?"  
  
Abby's growing discomfort was written all over her face.  
  
I repeated was what rapidly becoming my signature response. "Gamma, thank you, but no, thank you. I already have a day job."  
  
I turned on my heels and strode off, feeling her eyes bore into me, and knowing I'd eventually have some serious explaining to do.  
  
* * * * *  
  
I was relieved when I didn't hear the sound of her footsteps. Instead, as I cleverly observed through the mirror behind the bar, she chatted with Gamma and Steve a minute longer before politely excusing herself and heading in the direction of the ladies room.  
  
I watched her amble up to me. I shot her a look that said if she were smart, she'd keep her opinions to herself. I didn't want to talk about it. Not now. Maybe not ever.  
  
"That was a little rude." No such luck.  
  
Looked like I'd have to draw her a picture. "Stay out of it."  
  
"So was that."  
  
I could hear the formal presentation beginning in the background.  
  
OK, she was asking for it. I'd give her the quick and dirty version. After that, she'd be sure to see things from my side of the fence. "My grandmother doesn't want me to be the treasurer of the family foundation. She wants me to quit working."  
  
"She's old. She's probably looking to you to take on some of her load." Uh- oh. Gamma had an ally. Not to mention that she'd met her match.  
  
"Embrace my familial responsibilities. Join the family business." I tried to make her see the irony in it all.  
  
"Which is -- what exactly?"  
  
Funny, how I had failed to clue her in. I had been better than I thought at compartmentalizing my life. "This. It's giving away money. It's cutting ribbons. It's waving to the common man." I gave her a little queen's wave. "It's Prince Charles without the castle."  
  
She grinned at me playfully. "I don't know about no castle, I've seen your grandmother's house."  
  
Okay. Much as it pained me, it was time to pull out the big guns and whack her over the head. "Abby. I know you mean well, but don't try to tell me what to do with my life. Okay?"  
  
I heard the mistress of ceremonies calling my name. Perfect timing.  
  
"Okay," I heard her mutter as I walked toward the dais.  
  
The hole was getting deeper.  
  
* * * * *  
  
She's got a way of talkin'  
  
I don't know why it is  
  
But it lifts me up when we are walkin'  
  
Anywhere  
  
  
  
We stood in line outside the symphony entrance in pallid silence waiting for the valet. She refused to look at me. I guess I deserved it after what I'd said. But she had no right to butt in.  
  
Still, I extended an olive branch. "I think Shaw's is open late if you still want to get something to eat."  
  
"No, I'm not hungry," she said icily through clenched teeth. Her eyes darted straight ahead, burning a hole in the back of the person in front of us. She ran her fingers through starched hair.  
  
More silence.  
  
I tried again.  
  
"Not hungry or pissed at me?" I tossed the words into the starlit night. There.  
  
Still, not another peep out of her. I took that as a yes.  
  
I soldiered on. "Look, I'm sorry, but I don't think you have any right to lecture me about my family." I pulled the valet receipt from my wallet and examined it intently in the hope of finding some magical advice written on it. No such luck. I fiddled it between my fingers.  
  
She turned to face me and paused for effect. "Was that an apology?"  
  
A seldom seen side of me rose to the surface. The side that refused to give her the upper hand.  
  
Once again, I let it rip. "I don't owe you an apology."  
  
She looked away as I handed the ticket to the attendant. I wondered what price I might pay for these words. Or which version of Abby would emerge to counter them.  
  
We walked down the block to await the Jeep's arrival. Still nothing. Unresponsive Abby. Not the one I was expecting. I decided to add a bit of back-story with bold, dramatic strokes for good measure.  
  
"Look, you want me to end up like my father - at Gamma's beck and call handing out checks so the Art Institute can have another De Kooning? Or the symphony can have travertine instead of tile in the bathrooms?" I pretended to shoot myself in the head, pulling an imaginary trigger.  
  
Finally, the gloves came off.  
  
"Why don't you get involved with the Foundation and change its priorities? Give the money to health care, education, needle exchange - I don't know, anything you felt passionate about?"  
  
Obviously, she had given the matter some thought. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck, hot and cramped underneath the starch of my shirt collar, sticking up.  
  
"I feel passionate about what I'm doing, okay? I feel passionate about working at County."  
  
Hopefully that would shut her up.  
  
It didn't.  
  
"Who says you can't do both."  
  
Stubbornness was taking over. "I do."  
  
We stopped walking. She reached back and pulled out some ammunition of her own.  
  
"Okay, look, you were born really, really rich. So what? It's nothing to be ashamed about."  
  
What was that supposed to mean? How dare she.  
  
"I'm not ashamed of who I am." I could feel the righteous indignation creep into my tone until it became a palpable presence between us.  
  
She wouldn't let up. I hadn't seen her this animated since she tried to convince me not to get on the El after I'd discovered the secrets of the Girls' Club.  
  
"No? You drive a Jeep. You wear a cheap watch. You rent a two-bedroom apartment."  
  
I failed to suppress a giggle. Her words would have been amusing if they weren't so true. "So what do you want me to do, drive a BMW?" I tried to show her she didn't have the market cornered on self-deprecation.  
  
"No. I don't care. I couldn't care less. But you care a lot."  
  
We stopped walking again. Apparently, she was just getting warmed up.  
  
"You want everybody to think that you're just like them. And you're not. You just signed a check for 10 million dollars in there. You didn't even blink. I write a check for over a hundred dollars and I get a stomachache."  
  
I loosened my tie, ready to rumble.  
  
"I give something more important than money. I give my time and I do it everyday to real people and it makes a difference." I ticked my hands together for emphasis.  
  
My voice dared her to find a comeback to that remark. But the lady was on a roll.  
  
"And I think that's great. I really, really do. But money makes a difference, too."  
  
Ah, she had fallen into my trap. I drew out my ace in the hole.  
  
"You know where my money comes from?" I rubbed my right eye, which was beginning to twitch. "Do you know where the money for the Carter Symphony Hall comes from? My great-grandfather made a killing during the Depression cornering the coal market. In the winter of 1933, a lot of children froze to death. And my family made out like bandits."  
  
There. I had said it all.  
  
Finally, I had lulled her into submission.  
  
Not so fast.  
  
"That was 70 years ago, Carter. You can't give the money back now. Why not help give it to people who really need it? There's still lots of kids freezing to death every winter."  
  
Bulls-eye.  
  
The cumulative effect of her words stung me.  
  
I was too stunned to speak.  
  
There was a plucky, feisty side to her the world seldom saw. Who did you think she was - my conscience?  
  
I turned away as the attendant announced, "Black Jeep."  
  
A different kind of silence settled between us as we drove the short distance to Abby's apartment. Not the uneasy variety like before. More like two people alone, yet together, lost in their thoughts. Gamma had a word for it. She liked to call it woolgathering.  
  
I pulled up in front of her building and shifted the car into park before placing both hands firmly on the steering wheel. I made no attempt to get out.  
  
I cleared my throat as she turned toward me. "There's a patient I need to check on."  
  
"I thought the MVA guy was Luka's patient. Didn't his wife crash up in CT?"  
  
Chuny must have mentioned it when Abby had been standing at the admit desk waiting for me. "I pawned a flu patient with two little kids off on Pratt. I just want to make sure everything's OK."  
  
She seemed satisfied with my lie. "You coming back?" Her voice was flat.  
  
"Depends. Should I?"  
  
"Suit yourself, Carter," she said tightly as she fumbled with the door handle and climbed out of the Jeep.  
  
I reached into my pocket and examined the post it note with the address Sarah Wilson had scribbled on it. I waited until she was safely inside the door before speeding off toward McNulty's clinic.  
  
* * * * *  
  
She comes to me when I 'm feelin' down  
  
Inspires me without a sound  
  
I can't explain how I get turned around  
  
  
  
I was lulled back to reality by the blaring honk of the horn behind me. In the blink of an eye, the light had turned green. Obviously, someone was in a hurry and didn't think I was fast enough on the uptake.  
  
I pulled into the parking lot of an all-night diner close to the intersection where I should hang a left if I planned on heading to her apartment.  
  
I still couldn't decide.  
  
I glanced to my left and spied an Irish pub on the opposite side of the street.  
  
The sign above the door jolted me, sending a shiver down my spine.  
  
Callahan's.  
  
I struggled for a minute, trying to place the name.  
  
Finally, I made the connection.  
  
Callahan. Jesse Callahan. And her husband Tom. Their car had been struck by a snowplow on I-40.  
  
Remarkable coincidence or divine intervention?  
  
All it once, everything came tumbling back.  
  
The palpable despair that punctuated my gut as I exited the trauma room after my futile attempts to resuscitate her. Although she had been conscious when the paramedics first brought her into the ER, she had crashed while awaiting a head CT. Her husband, aware that she was in the next room, had refused to go up to the OR until he saw her. I had left Luka with the sad task of informing him that she was brain dead.  
  
I remembered swallowing a big gulp of air to stifle the sob that threatened to slip out as I stood there with hunched shoulders feeling helpless and alone.  
  
And then, turning to my left, I saw her standing there. I saw her before she saw me. A vision of loveliness in all her uncharacteristic come hither glory. All decked out for the symphony fundraiser. Waiting for me expectantly. Hoping for my approval.  
  
As her eyes met mine, I softly mouthed a gentle "hi." She waved to me, a luminous smile lighting up her face.  
  
How many people are lucky enough to find the one person who can see right through them?  
  
And love them just the same?  
  
I thought about Tom Callahan and ached for the moment when he'd wake up from surgery and it would hit him. That never again could he comfort his beloved with gentle kisses or ask her forgiveness to atone for his sins.  
  
But I still could.  
  
I guess I had my answer.  
  
* * * * *  
  
She's got a way of showin'  
  
How I make her feel  
  
And we found the strength to keep on goin'  
  
  
  
I unlocked the door to her apartment to find her sitting in the near dark, save for the glow of a trio of candles the lined the coffee table. Soft, smoky jazz filled the room.  
  
She had dozed off wrapped in an old white chenille robe and the blanket I had given her for Christmas, her hair still damp from the shower I'm sure she had taken the minute she walked in the door. I remembered her complaining about the unfamiliar sensation of her hair feeling stiff as cardboard.  
  
I quietly removed my coat, scarf and tuxedo jacket and draped them on a rocking chair, placing my duffel bag on the floor next to it.  
  
She stirred as I sunk down at the other end of the sofa, opening up her eyes to reveal sleepy surprise, as though she wasn't quite sure whether she was awake or dreaming.  
  
"Thanks for waiting up," I said in the most conciliatory tone I could muster.  
  
She rubbed her eyes, sitting up straight. "You'll be pleased to know that the Carter Family Foundation's little soiree made all three network newscasts. You and your fat check are the toast of Chicago. Don't be surprised if "The Bachelor" comes knocking on your door soon. You know, so you can have more people in your life."  
  
I winced. "I'm sorry the evening didn't turn out quite the way I had planned."  
  
She looked at me expectantly, apparently still hankering for an apology.  
  
"But I still don't think I owe you an apology, Abby. You can't possibly know what it's like to have lived my life. Or what it's like to be me. Not unless you've walked a mile in my shoes."  
  
"Great. A half-hearted apology for a non-apology. Might as well quit while you're ahead, Carter."  
  
"I didn't say that your words had no effect on me." I let that revelation hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "He tore up my check."  
  
A familiar knowingness immediately crept across her face. Another "aha moment." You could almost see the light switch being turned on. Amazing, that even when the road grew bumpy between us, that we still could decipher each other's comments with a peculiar shorthand only we understood.  
  
She pulled a pillow from behind her and laid it across her lap. She gently laced her fingertips through mine, elegantly motioning for me to place my head on top of it. Though I knew it was a gesture I probably didn't deserve, I was nonetheless happy to oblige.  
  
She looked down at me expectantly. I returned the gaze, my heart creeping into my throat. And then almost surreally, a torrent of words came tumbling out of my mouth. My stubborn way of trying to make things right.  
  
"All my life, I've compartmentalized everything that matters most to me. Each one in a separate drawer. So there's a drawer for John Truman Carter IV, scion of one of Chicago's wealthiest families. Another drawer for John Carter, M.D., chief resident at County. And finally a drawer for "Carter" or "John" - depending on her mood, take your pick - Abby Lockhart's lover."  
  
"Sure there's been a bit of crossover between Drawers 2 and 3 - how can there not be when we work side by side day and night in the same ER? But up until now, Drawer #1 has been an island unto itself. Being born into the Carter family has been something I've never managed to come to grips with. And I'm still having trouble after all these years.  
  
She brushed my cheek, her eyes still riveted on mine.  
  
"So I've just put up these walls. Not walls, actually. Boundaries. And no one's managed to cross them. Until you came along. And nothing since then has been quite the same."  
  
I paused for a moment as she traced a finger around my mouth.  
  
"You see right through me, Abby. Tonight you just nailed it. And it totally blew me away. I felt completely naked standing there in front of you, like something out of "The Emperor's New Clothes." You stepped outside of yourself, outside of whatever feelings you may have for me. You held a mirror up to me and tried to help me see the situation for what it is, pure and simple. That there's got to be a balance between giving away money and giving of oneself. That the two concepts aren't mutually exclusive."  
  
I reached up and playfully touched her nose.  
  
"But I wasn't quite ready to hear the truth. So I resorted to the kind of behavior that's worked so well for the two of us in the past - harsh words and dismissive accusations. But surprisingly tonight you refused to take the bait. You just kept chipping away at my armor. All I wanted to do was push back. And push you away."  
  
She looked at me skeptically.  
  
"So why are you here?"  
  
I leaned up and swung my legs around, placing my feet on the floor as I batted the answer to her question around in my head - the same answer that had crystallized in the car. It was the only part of the evening I really wanted to remember. I placed my elbow on the back of the couch behind her shoulder and turned her face towards me, cupping it in my hand.  
  
"Right after you went into the lounge to get dressed, Jesse Callahan crashed waiting for a head CT. She was my female MVA who had been brought in earlier in the day when a snowplow hit the car she and her husband were riding in. And despite our best attempts to revive her, she ended up brain dead. Her husband wouldn't go up to the OR for surgery until he saw her. As I left, they were wheeling him in. Luka had to tell him that she wasn't going to make it. And as I pushed through the trauma room doors, I felt totally bereft, as though I had failed her. Failed both of them. I thought I was going to lose it."  
  
I could see the knowingness once again creep across her face, like she knew what I was going to say next. After all, she had been there.  
  
"And then I turned and saw you. I saw you before you saw me. Standing there so expectantly. A vision of loveliness, waiting for me. Waiting for the night to begin. When you smiled at me, all the bad stuff just melted away."  
  
I stroked her face. "So that's what I want to remember most about tonight. The rest we can figure out later. What to do about canapés and cheap watches and children freezing in the dead of winter."  
  
She answered any questions that still lingered between us with a tender salty kiss placed firmly on my mouth.  
  
When she pulled away, I could see the wheels were still turning.  
  
"So what happened with McNulty?"  
  
I clasped her hand and pulled her up off the couch, encircling her in my arms. "I'll tell you in the morning."  
  
She blew out the candles before taking my outstretched hand toward the bedroom.  
  
Still miles and miles to go before we could sleep.  
  
* * * * *  
  
She's got a light around her  
  
And everywhere she goes  
  
A million dreams of love surround her  
  
Everywhere  
  
* * * * * 


	6. Buried Treasures

Title:  "Buried Treasures" Description:  Post-ep for "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished."  Sixth chapter in "The Long Way," a series of Season 9 post-eps beginning with "First Snowfall."  Carter's POV. Author: KenzieGal (a/k/a It's Always Something) Disclaimer: Carter and Abby do not belong to me - they are the property of the wise and wealthy minds of TPTB at Warner Brothers.  No copyright infringement intended. Notes:  This is the first in a series of crossover post-eps with SunniSkies' (a/k/a Lanie) "Reflections" series.  Look for her to pick up the story thread in her upcoming post-ep to "No Strings Attached." 

Special thanks to Pemberley for her thoughtful input on the carby anthem du juor, "To Make You Feel My Love."

Spoilers: Everything during Season 9 up to and including "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished." Please read and review.  And enjoy.  If you do, let me know.  If you don't, let me know, too. 

* * * * * * * * * *

_When the rain is blowing in your face_

_And the whole world is on your case_

_I could offer you a warm embrace_

_To make you feel my love_

_When evening shadows and the stars appear_

_And there is no one there to dry your tears_

_I could hold you for a million years_

_To make you feel my love_

* * * * * * * * * *

The steamy water raining down from the showerhead scorched my skin like a thousand tiny pinpricks making perfect contact with their designated pressure points.  A soothing potion for an aching back, a bruised ego, a wounded heart and a ravaged soul.  Unfortunately, some things are more easily cleansed than others.

I toweled off quickly, and after rummaging through an assortment of empty drawers, I donned a pair of boxer shorts and an old DePaul t-shirt that I unearthed from a laundry basket at the bottom of my closet.

Entering the living room, I glanced around my apartment.  It looked neglected and unloved, like the space between two worlds.  It had been weeks since I had spent more than an hour here.  

I collapsed onto the couch, collecting into my lap the stack of mail that had slowly been multiplying on the adjacent coffee table and attempted to make some sense of it all.  

Casually flipping through the latest issue of _Psychology Today, I must not have heard the turn of the key in the lock in the door.  The next thing I knew someone was standing behind me._

"Hey."

"Hey yourself."  I casually waved my hand in the air, unsure whether I was ready to talk to her about it.  She had caught me off guard.  I hadn't expected her at all tonight, convinced that she was still busy entertaining Eric, especially since I had never called like I said I would.

"Where've you been?  I've been trying to call you."  Though my back was turned to her, I could sense her removing her coat and scarf and throwing them on the coat rack in the entrance way.

I paused for dramatic effect.

"Yeah, I must have turned off my phone after I called Gamma's lawyer to tell him to stop payment on the check to McNulty."  My voice was flat and even, lacking the intonation of nonchalance I had tried, but failed, to muster.

Slowly she crept up behind me and came around to sit next to me on the couch.  I still had my nose buried in the magazine.

She reached out to touch my thigh and then my shoulder.  "Did something happen to McNulty?" she asked softly.

"You could say that," I replied, still afraid to look up.

She removed the magazine from my hands and leaned her hand in to turn my face towards hers.  I hadn't looked in the mirror, but I can only surmise that the incredible dullness in my eyes was enough to give myself away.

I couldn't hide anymore.

"I was had."

"What?"   Her eyes were bright, her face flushed, as if all had been right with her world until she had walked through the door.  She blinked rapidly in succession as though fearful of what was coming next.  

I filled her in on the sordid details.  

"So moral of the story:  'McNulty played me like a violin.'  'Johnny got scammed.'  'I fell for his ruse hook, line and sinker.'  Pick your sound bite.  A, B, C or all of the above."

She was silent for a moment, seemingly at a loss on what tact to use to take the sting out of my wound.

She managed a tight smile.  "There was something about him that I couldn't quite put my finger on.  Something about the way he kept leering at me and calling me 'beautiful.'  John, I'm so sorry."  

She reached behind me to hand me a pillow, wrapping her fingers around mine to place it in my lap.

"My turn this time."  She swung her body sideways and laid her head in my lap. 

I stroked her cheek and took a deep breath.  "Do you mind if we talk about something else for awhile?  Where's Eric?"

"Oh, he sailed high above 'the surly bonds of earth' and into the Chicago sunset, back to Wisconsin.  It was very romantic."

There was no mistaking the lilt in her voice.  I thought back to the previous time she had used that last phrase -- the night she had sat on her front steps after Eric and Maggie had abruptly headed back to Minneapolis.  What a difference a few months – and an unannounced visit – had made.

"I'm sure it was."

"You should have seen the look of pure joy on his face as he revved up the engine and got ready for take-off."

"I'm glad.  See, you should believe more in happy endings."

She gave me a knowing look.   

"It's not over for him, you know."

"I know."

"He asked about you."

"And what did you tell him?"

"That you were leaving me to go off and play jungle doctor."

"Abby."

"I didn't get a whole lot of sympathy from him.  After all, he's all set to be a bush pilot, running hunting and fishing charters in Wisconsin.  The two of you are kindred spirits."

I tenderly massaged her collarbone, sending a shiver up her spine.  Make that both our spines.  "This medical mission stuff really has you spooked, doesn't it?"

She shrugged her shoulders.  "I just think there's so much good that you can do right here rather than traipsing off trying to be the twenty-first century reincarnation of Dr. Tom Dooley." 

"Who?"

"Never mind.  Before your time.  I guess that's why I was hoping this thing with McNulty had worked out.  At least you can get your money back."

"It's about more than just the money, Abby."

"I know."  She sat up in one fell swoop and grabbed my hand to pull me up off the couch and into a warm embrace.  Crossing her arms behind my neck, she reached up and whispered in my ear.  "The Carter Family Clinic had a nice ring to it.  But you know, it's not too late."

I thought about it for a moment as I wrapped my arm across her waist and steered her toward the bedroom.

I sighed and drew my arms closer around her.   "You always know just the right thing to say, don't you?

"Sometimes I just get lucky."

* * * * * * * * * *

_I know you haven't made your mind up yet_

_But I would never do you wrong_

_I've known it from the moment that we met_

_No doubt in my mind where you belong_

I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, my fingers rhythmically strumming my chest to the strains of her gentle breathing.  Chalk another one up on a long list of nights in which, despite my intentions, the sandman simply would not come.

I turned onto my side to look at the source of the steady cadence that filled my ears like music.  I squinted in the darkness, my eyes mesmerized by the look of moon-kissed sweetness that fell across her face.

Her face.

I pictured myself on my deathbed, my life flashing before my eyes.  Moments I'd reach across a hundred thousand heartbeats to caress one last time.  I closed my eyes and imagined a montage of her stilled expressions at various pivotal points in time.  

I rewound the mental image back to the beginning, to my earliest recollection of her in the ER.  And then fast-forwarded a little to my own private ground zero, the Book of Genesis, where it all had begun.

"When did it happen for you, Carter?"  I still recalled not giving her a clear answer when she asked me that night before she left for Nebraska.  

Up on the roof.  Three years ago, this Valentine's Day.  The look on her face the night I brought her a cup of coffee after Mrs. Connelly's heart was stilled.  When she waxed so eloquently about the differences between life and death in labor and delivery and the ER.  The stone cold night she mused that she'd like to see me trying to get warm in an incubator in the NICU.

The night I first fell in mad, never-ending love.  

Only I didn't know it then.

Fast-forwarding again, I paused my cinematic cornucopia on more images that were vintage Abby. 

Sharing cigarettes and hot fudge sundaes and she reluctantly agreed to walk the steps with me in Doc Magoo's.

Dancing to the orchestra at the museum gala.

Pulling up to her apartment and discussing junior high school perms after our road trip to Oklahoma.

Giggling on Gamma's lawn after my grandfather's funeral.

Walking her to her door after our aquatic mischief caper with Luka's fish tank. 

Exchanging stilted sideways glances the day she caught me kissing Susan in the lounge.  The day she couldn't keep Sobriki from me.

Lamenting the loss of Mark Greene on the Lava Lounge loading dock.

Moving in for an unexpected first kiss in the unlikeliest of places, the ER during lock down.

Each moment was etched forever in the deep reservoir of memory, each one more special than the last.

But something was missing.

There were no words, no soundtrack playing softly in the background to compliment the lovely scenes.  It was as though someone had unintentionally hit the mute button.  

What thoughts had gone through her mind during these defining moments?  How had they weathered posterity?

Unfortunately, I didn't know.  

She had never told me.

For a long time, a part of me had feared that these moments could not have possibly meant as much to her as they had to me.  And so I patiently waited for her feelings to catch up.

But then, as we had grown closer over the past few months, another thought had occurred to me.

What if the genie simply needed a gentle nudge to be unleashed from its bottle?

What if beneath the steely veneer a wellspring of words were waiting to be tapped?

Maybe I was onto something.

An idea was beginning to form in my head.

* * * * * * * * * *

_I'd go hungry, I'd go black and blue_

_I'd go crawling down the avenue_

_There's nothing that I wouldn't do_

_To make you feel my love_

I stood patiently in line as it snaked around a display of discounted wall calendars at the Borders on North Michigan Avenue, juggling two sets of identical items in my hands.

As I strode up and placed them on the counter, I was greeted by a perky sales clerk, with a blond ponytail, an upturned nose and a coquettish grin who could have passed for a younger version of Katie Couric.  

"Presents for twins?"  She smiled demurely.

"No, it's a little writing project for my girlfriend and I…" My voice trailed off.

"You two getting married?"

"Huh?"

She pointed to the set of notebooks, their covers each featuring five Adirondack chairs lined up along the water's edge, and the quote beneath it.

"Hello?  See this quote here?  'Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be?'  Immortal words from Robert Browning.  It's used a lot for weddings."  She rolled her eyes as if to ask how I could possibly not get it.

I feigned innocence.  "I just liked the picture," I replied politely, flashing her a mischievous grin and pocketing my change.  

I walked out into the unexpected pleasure of a cloudless February day, bright and sunny with no wind to speak of.  I turned my wrist over and glanced at my watch.  I still had a little over four hours before my shift started at three.  

I turned right and headed south on Michigan Avenue.  About two miles later, I found myself in Grant Park.  I found a bench.  Taking a pen out of my pocket, I pulled out one of the journals and began to write.

_February 2, 2003_

_Abby - - _

_Right now, more than anything, I'd love to see the look on your face once you've found this.  Then again, I've been privy to so many of your telling looks these past three years, it isn't hard to imagine._

_My mind keeps coming back to several conversations we've had the past few months, trying to make some sense of where we've been, where we are and where we're going._

_When we walked by the lake that morning after the lockdown, I told you that I didn't want chaos to rule anymore, that I wanted to know where it was taking me.  A little while later, the night I came back to your apartment after leaving you at the el station, I told you that I needed a chance to think about things, to figure out where we were.  And the night the MPs took Eric to Nebraska, I told you that I was the new constant thing in your life, that I wasn't going anywhere.  Ever.  _

_Each day I realize more and more that life with you is all about the journey, not the destination.  As I've thought back on the long and twisty road we've traveled, though, I've found that I can recall the look on your face during dozens and dozens of pivotal moments we've spent getting from there to here.  But I had no idea what you were thinking or the thoughts that passed through your mind.  Because I had never heard the words.  Words I longed to hear._

_Which gave me this idea.  Throughout these pages, I've listed nine of these so-called "pivotal moments" in our relationship.  For each one, I'd like you to first jot down whatever comes to mind when you think back on the thoughts that went through your head at the time.  And second, the memories you carried away with you from that moment  when viewed through the prism of everything that's happened since then._

_And now a few ground rules - -_

_I'll let you in on a little secret – I'm going to answer the same questions._

_Let's not discuss this until we've both completed the exercise, at which point we'll exchange notebooks._

_Remember, there are no right or wrong answers.  In case you ever get stuck, I've included two items for inspiration._

_The first is a book that's a particular favorite of mine.  You'll understand why once you've read it.  Gamma used to read it to Bobby and I on the balcony outside her bedroom under the stars.  Remember how I once told you I wasn't going anywhere?  Because even when we're not together, you're still with me.  Because you have tamed me.  And because of the wheat fields._

_The second is a song that perfectly captures where my head and my heart are at right now.  _

_Until the next place._

_Yours, _

_John_

Satisfied, I closed the book and placed the cap on my pen.  

I had no doubt I would find my voice.  And that I would help her find hers.

I stood up and headed toward her apartment.

* * * * * * * * * *

_The storms are raging on the rollin' sea_

_And on the highway of regret_

_The winds of change are blowing wild and free_

_You ain't seen nothing like me yet_

I slipped into her apartment, closing the door softly behind me, though she had left for her shift hours ago.  The sweet smell of vanilla hung in the air.

I entered her bedroom, and chuckled at the sight of the unmade bed and clothes scattered haphazardly across the floor, the price her housekeeping prowess had paid earlier this morning for her insistence on my hitting the snooze alarm one last time.

Opening the doors of the armoire, I bent down and tugged on the bottom drawer, a twinge of déjà vu washing over me.  As was their custom, the respectable ones were on top.  I gave a silent nod to the ones I recognized that had traveled with me to Nebraska.  

I opened my satchel bag and extracted three items, tucking them along side each other under the swatch of wrapping paper that separated the under garments on top from their poorer relations at the bottom of the drawer.

I glanced at the buried treasures one last time before closing the drawer.

A slim spiral-bound journal.

A copy of Antoine De Saint-Exupery's "The Little Prince."

A jewel case containing a cut from a CD I has asked Malik to burn for me.  Joan Osbourne's rendition of "To Make You Feel My Love," a Bob Dylan tune first made famous by Billy Joel and Garth Brooks.

Closing the door with a final thud, I bounded down the steps of her building, the lyrics looping through my head, dreaming of the day I'd hear her sing them to me.

And mean every word of it.

* * * * * * * * * *

_I could make you happy, make your dreams come true_

_Nothing that I wouldn't do_

_Go to the ends of the earth for you_

_To make you feel my love_

* * * * * * * * * *


	7. Time For Me To Fly

Title:  Time For Me To Fly Description:  Post-ep for "No Strings Attached."  Seventh chapter in "The Long Way," a series of Season 9 post-eps beginning with "First Snowfall."  Carter's POV. Author: KenzieGal (a/k/a It's Always Something) Disclaimer: Carter and Abby do not belong to me - they are the property of the wise and wealthy minds of TPTB at Warner Brothers.  No copyright infringement intended. Notes:  This is the second in a series of crossover post-eps with SunniSkies' (a/k/a Lanie) "Reflections" series.  Look for her to pick up the story thread in her current post-ep (Chapter 12) to "No Strings Attached." 

If you haven't read her fic yet (and I highly doubt it because everyone here seems to have read it...it's that good), I highly recommend that you do!  Please consider that while there will be another common thread weaving its way through our chapters, our individual work will remain our own. Her stories won't exactly parallel mine, and vice versa. 

The song playing in the background is "Landslide," first made famous by Fleetwood Mac and recently reprised by The Dixie Chicks.

As usual, special thanks to Pemberley, the carby songmeistress extraordinaire, for her thoughtful musings and creative input.    

Spoilers: Everything during Season 9 up to and including "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished." Please read and review.  And enjoy.  If you do, let me know.  If you don't, let me know, too. 

* * * * *

_I took my love, I took it down_

_Climbed a mountain and I turned around_

_And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills_

_'Til the landslide brought it down_

* * * * *

"Sir, what can I get you to drink?"

For the third time in as many months, a voice of Southern hospitality, seemingly sent from the central casting department of the friendly skies, leaned in to take my drink order.

"Bottled water, please."

Still, a teetotaler in first class.

I gazed out the window as the plane soared high above the gray skies of Chicago.

I was on my way to Belize to join four Sigma Nu frat buddies in what had gradually become an annual scuba diving getaway.  Flying in from far flung corners of the country, each year we rented a villa at a place called Cayo Espanto, a five-star world class resort, where we did nothing for a solid week but eat, drink (well, everyone but me that is) and dive.  George, my former roommate, and his brother Jared flew down together from Greenwich, Connecticut while our friends Cole and Griffin arrived from Atlanta and LA respectively.  I would be the last one to join the party this year as the rest of them had arrived yesterday.

Abby had been surprisingly supportive of the excursion.  Coming so closely on the heels of the debacle with McNulty, she seemed to think the change of scenery would do me good.  Probably because she'd rather see me engage in a familiar ritual of my privileged upbringing rather than head off on a spur-of-the-moment odyssey to the deep dark African jungle.

I contemplated how much I'd reveal to my friends about her, recalling the wanton tales of doomed relationships I carried down with me like soiled laundry during each one of our annual pilgrimages.  Over the years, my friends, all happily married, or at least pretending to be, had given me more than enough unsolicited armchair psychoanalysis on what had gone wrong with everyone from Harper Tracey to Rena Trujillo.  Somehow I wanted to spare Abby from the hot seat.  All they had to do was take one look at me to realize that somehow she was different.

She had certainly been different this afternoon.  I could feel the corners of my mouth turn upwards at the thought.

Reaching under the seat into my carry on bag, I extracted my portable CD player and popped in a CD.

I still preferred the throaty catch in Stevie Nicks' voice to the sweet harmony of the Dixie Chicks.

In what had become a habit-forming ritual, I leaned back in my seat, covered my ears with the headphones and dialed up the Abby channel.

Another song from the '70s took me back to an afternoon of rhythmic deliberations, fits of giggles and hushed ruminations.

Utterly delightful.

* * * * *

_Oh, mirror in the sky_

_What is love?_

_Can the child within my heart rise above?_

* * * * *

We walked the short distance from the el station to her apartment in perfect lockstep, our arms wrapped tightly around one another's waists in an uncharacteristic display of public affection.  It had been her idea actually.  I had felt her reach around my jacket as soon as we had descended the last step, her body leaning into mine as though she wanted to crawl inside of me.  I chuckled silently to myself, at her reaction to the prospect of my leaving taking.

Though it was still more than five hours until my plane took off, we quickly entered her apartment, giddy over the prospect of what was coming next.

We both found out soon enough.

I couldn't get enough of her.  She consumed me like a lit match to gasoline, like someone had reached deep inside of me to trip the switch of the aurora borealis.  Our lovemaking was punctuated by moments of reckless abandon and unadulterated passion intertwined with moments of quiet exploration and pure joy.  

Afterwards, we lay side-by-side on our backs, spent and reflective, staring at the ceiling.  The glow of the lamp on the bookcase bathed the room in soft light. 

I took the plunge and broke the delicious silence, turning my face toward hers.  "You still OK with me going?"

Her gaze met mine.  "Yeah, I said I was."

"And you meant it?"  

She smiled demurely though she didn't respond.

I sighed, folding my hands across my chest.  "What are you thinking?"

She turned her head away, giggling.  "Nothing."

"Work?"

"Nope."

"Your mom?"

"God, no."

"Come on, tell me."  

"It's a song."  She faced front again, her eyes returning to the ceiling.

"Oh yeah?"

"Mm hmm."  She chuckled softly.  "From the '70s."  She pushed her head back against the pillow, smiled and turned once again to face me.

I wagged my fingers at her.  "Which one?"

"It's goofy."

I propped myself up on my side.  "Blinded By the Light?  Love Will Keep Us Together?"

"No."

"What?"

Out of the blue, she began to sing, a loopy grin I had never seen before sliding from one end of her mouth to the other.  

"_Rubbing sticks and stones together makes the sparks ignite…"_

I shook my head and crinkled my eyes, startled by her serenade.  "No…"

She nodded, giggling some more.  "_And the thought of…something…something…"_

I covered my head with a pillow.

The gesture seemed to egg her on even more.  "…_is getting so exciting…"_  Looking at me, she let loose a slow, throaty cackle.

I peered out from under the pillow.  I tried to picture how she had looked in the '70s.  She would have been about 8 years old when the Starland Vocal Band had earned its place in the one-hit wonder bubblegum pop hall of fame.

"Are you done?"

"_Sky…"_

I threw the pillow back across my face in mocked disgust.

"_…rockets in flight…"_ Her words punctuated the air as she leaned in towards me.  

I peeked out again at her.  Her eyes matched the sparkle of the diamond studs in her ears. 

"_Afternoon…"_

The pillow and I once again assumed the position.

"_Delight!"_

I uncovered my face as the two of us burst into fits of husky laughter.

"_Aaaaaaaaaaaaa…" _ She closed her eyes lost in the chorus.

I pressed my hand together in a gesture of mock prayer.  

"_aaaaaaaaaaaaa…"  _Undeterred, she continued to wail.

"Please, don't."

"_aaaaaaaaaa…"_

I attempted to ward her off the best way I knew how, with a slow, easy kiss.  She giggled into my mouth.  

Suddenly the phone rang.

"Are you going to get that?"

"No."

My lips continued in the role of musical roadblocks as she fumbled to unplug the cord from the phone. 

Almost time for me to fly.

* * * * *

_Can I sail through the changin' ocean tides?_

_Can I handle the seasons of my life?_

_I don't know…_

* * * * *

As I stood in the customs line at  Belize International Airport, an American airline ticket agent tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a small, neatly folded piece of paper.  A hastily scrawled message informed me that a Miss Abby Lockhart had unsuccessfully tried to have me paged in Miami after my flight had already boarded.

After clearing customs, I pulled out my cell phone to check the voice mailbox, expecting to find a clever message from her.  

Instead, it was empty.  

I stood there momentarily perplexed, wondering why she just hadn't left a message.  My heart beating a little faster than it should, I punched in the familiar number of the ER front desk.  Frank put me on hold while he went to inquire as to her whereabouts.

I heard the sound of someone picking up the line.

"Hey.  I got a message that you had me paged in Miami.  Everything OK?"

"So, you're flight was all right, then?"  Her voice sounded strained.  Maybe it was the connection.

There was an uneasy pause.  This is what she had to tell me?  

"Yeah, I got here safe and sound.  Abby, what's wrong?"

Another moment of uneasy silence.  "Umm, Eric's plane disappeared.  It went off radar or something."

Oh God.  

I tried to keep my voice strong although inwardly, I cringed.  "How long ago did this happen?"

"I don't know."  Suddenly with a forced cheeriness, she changed the subject though the fear was still palpable in her voice.  "Have you been in the water yet?"

"I'll catch the first flight back to Miami.  I'll be home tomorrow morning."

"No, Carter, you don't have to do that…"

"Abby, I don't want you to go through this alone…"

"Carter…I…he…could show up in an hour.  I just want to wait and see what happens."

I sighed, oddly deflated over her reluctance to take advantage of my noble gesture.

"Your call.  I'll hang tight until you know more."

"OK."

"OK."

"All right, I have to go."  

"Call me the minute you hear something.  I don't care what time it is."

"I'll call you later."  With a faint click, the line went dead.

I stood there helplessly overcome with a feeling of paralyzing fear.  

I thought of her going home alone to an empty apartment, sick with worry as she awaited word on Eric's fate, the scent of our midday tête-à-tête still punctuating the air.  

I thought of all the nights she had spent alone during her hardscrabble upbringing, nights she had carried around with her like some clinking leg iron buried deep within her soul.

There was only one real choice.

I left a message for George with the concierge at Cayo Espanto, briefly explaining that a family emergency necessitated that I turn around and head back to Chicago and that I'd call him once I got home.

Then, slinging my bag over my shoulder, I headed toward the American Airlines ticket counter in search of the last flight back to Miami.

* * * * *

_Well, I've been afraid of changing'_

_'cause I've built my life around  you_

_But time makes you bolder_

_Even children get older_

_And I'm getting older too_

* * * * *

I sat slumped in my seat in the Miami airport waiting for the boarding call that would take me back to Chicago when I heard the jingling sound of my cell phone.

I picked it up on the second ring.  

"Hey."  I tried to sound groggy and nonchalant, so that she'd think she had awoken me out of a peaceful deep slumber.

"Hi."

"What's wrong?  Did you hear?"  My voice trailed off, leaving the question dangling.

"No.  I just wanted to hear your voice."

I sighed, knowing the waiting was the hardest part.  "Abby…"

"Did I wake you?"

I paused for a second, sitting up and arching my aching back against the back of the rubbery chair.  I smiled ruefully to myself.  She'd know soon enough.

"No."  

"Really?  It's five-thirty in the morning…"

"I was up."

"I bet the weather is beautiful there…"  I looked out the window across the tarmac that stretched flat and forever against the sleepy skyline.

"Yeah.  I suppose it is."  It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep up the charade.

"You got big plans for today?"

"Abby…"

"Yeah?"

"Stop."  I heard a soft sigh on the other end of the line.

"Do you want me to come home?"  For some reason, I wanted to hear her say it.

"No."  Damnit, she could be stubborn.

"Are you sure?"  

"I…I'm sure it's nothing."

"That's not what I asked, Abby."

"Yes, I'm sure."

The line fell silent except for the faint sound of our breathing.

"Okay."

"Go.  Have fun."

"Call me if you hear anything."

"I will."

"Good.  And try and get some sleep, okay?"

"Yes, doctor."

In the distance, I heard the first boarding call for American Airlines Flight 568 to Chicago/O'Hare.  I picked up my bag and strode quickly to the check-in line.

"I have to go."

"I know."

"Sleep."

"I'll try.  Bye."

I paused briefly and handed my boarding pass to the attendant.

"Abby, I love you.  Bye."

I glanced at my watch as I walked down the tunnel to the airplane hatch, trying to calculate how long it would be before I could take her in my arms and wipe all her tears away.   
  


* * * * *

_Oh, take my love, take it down_

_Climb a mountain and turn around_

_And if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills_

_Well the landslide will bring it down_

* * * * *

I made my way back to the very last row in coach, to the middle seat over the right engine.  Hardly my usual perch, but beggars couldn't be choosers.  I was lucky I had gotten a seat at all.

I settled into my seat, wedged between a middle-aged man and a teenage girl, both of whom appeared to be in search of additional sleep.

I closed my eyes and thought of her, wondering if sleep had found her last night.  I pictured her scrunched up in a tight ball in a corner of the couch, her lips pursed, waiting, praying for the phone to ring with happy news.  

After an uneventful take-off, I glanced out the window at the brilliant morning settling over the sun-drenched eastern coast of Florida and marveled at the invisible strings that always, no matter how far I roamed, pulled me back toward her orbit.  

Somewhere, deep in my gut, I knew he was still alive, that it was much too early for him to have been swallowed up into the sky before his days on earth were through.

I considered the impact he had had on her life, in a way that had been far different than if it had just been her and Maggie all those years.

I thought about his greatest gift to her – the fact that his mere presence as her baby brother had kindled the embers of love in both of them, despite the harrowing experiences of their childhoods.

So that someday she could love me.

Suddenly, a thought clicked into place.  What was it about airplane rides and moments of epiphany?  I rubbed my hand across my jaw, momentarily crushed.

"And the thought of something…something…is getting so exciting…" 

Since yesterday, I had racked my brains trying to recall the words she had forgotten – or at least pretended to – in her butchered rendition of "Afternoon Delight."

Now I remembered.

"And the thought of loving you is so exciting…" 

She still hadn't told me.  

At least not in so many words.

But we were working on it.

I reached under the seat, digging into my bag until I found what I was looking for.  I pulled out  a slim, spiral bound notebook, identical to the one I had left in her drawer.  I opened it to the first page and stared at the line I had scrawled at the top.

_Pivotal Moment #1:  Valentine's Day, 2000.  The rooftop of County General Hospital._

Had it really been three years ago?

Though my life was about to change forever then in just a few, short minutes, the tragedy had been preceded by a moment of startling clarity that comforted me as I drifted in and out of consciousness over the next few days.

What had drawn me to her in the first place?

I remembered buying the two cups of coffee after I heard Mrs. Connelly had died, knowing I'd find her up on the roof.  

I still could picture the way she took slow drags off her cigarette through clenched, freezing fingers as she mourned the loss through tired eyes.  

The way she had playfully teased about wanting to see me warmed up in an incubator in the NICU.  

The way she had waxed nostalgic about the subtle nuances between the life and death situations found in the ER and OB departments.

The way she had asked for the bad news first.    

Since then, nothing had been quite the same.

The words, which had eluded me for so long, now sat poised in my pen, ready to tumble onto the page.

And so I began to write, trying to explain to her in the best clumsy eloquence that I could muster, about how, thanks to her, the night my life had almost ended, it had also only just begun.

* * * * *

_And if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills_

_Well the landslide will bring it down_

_The landslide will bring it down_

_But time makes you bolder_

_Even children get older_

_And I'm getting older too_

* * * * *


	8. My Better Half

**Title:  My Better Half** Description:  Post-ep for "A Boy Falling Out of the Sky."  Eighth chapter in "The Long Way," a series of Season 9 post-eps beginning with "First Snowfall."  Carter's POV. Author: KenzieGal (a/k/a It's Always Something) Disclaimer: Carter and Abby do not belong to me - they are the property of the wise and wealthy minds of TPTB at Warner Brothers.  No copyright infringement intended. Notes:  This is the third in a series of crossover post-eps with SunniSkies' (a/k/a Lanie) "Reflections" series.  Look for her to pick up the story thread in "Unsaid," her current post-ep (Chapter 13) to "A Boy Falling Out of the Sky."  If you haven't read her stuff yet (and I highly doubt it because everyone here seems to have read it...it's that good), I strongly recommend that you do!  Please consider that while there will be another common thread weaving its way through our chapters, our individual work will remain our own. Her stories won't exactly parallel mine, and vice versa. 

The song playing in the background is "I'll Stand By You," by The Pretenders.  Though I know it's been overdone in the carby fan fic world, and I seriously considered various alternatives, it seemed like a good fit for where Carter was coming from this episode.

As always, special thanks to Pemberley, for her spot on institutional memory when it comes carby.  Additionally, thanks to two new friends I've fallen into step with at ff.net – Taylor Wise and Anna for their encouragement and creative inspiration.

Spoilers: Everything during Season 9 up to and including "A Boy Falling Out of the Sky." Please read and review.  And enjoy.  If you do, let me know.  If you don't, let me know, too. 

* * * * *

_Oh, why you look so sad?___

_Tears are in your eyes___

_Come on and come to me now.___

_Don't be ashamed to cry___

_Let me see you through___

_Cause I've seen the dark side too.___

The checkered cab sped softly through the windswept streets toward her apartment in the post-rush hour calm of a gray and dreary Chicago morning.  

It seemed like I had never left.  

"You have good trip, sir?" the cab driver asked in a polite, clipped accent I couldn't quite place.

"Yeah."  My voice was light and friendly, but in no mood to explain the aborted nature of my journey.  I directed a soothing finger toward a piercing ache that churned down my left side like runoff from a storm drain. 

"You go someplace warm, I hope?"

Well, technically I had passed through customs in Belize City -- twice.  And I had spent the night in Miami.

"You bet."  He probably wondered what had happened to my savage tan, but seemed too respectful to ask.

For that, he was rewarded with a generous tip after depositing me in front of her building.  

I bounded up the steps two at a time, pausing briefly to listen in before I turned the key in the lock:  stilted silence with the exception of a dull buzzing off in the distance.

Her apartment reeked with the rancid stench of stale coffee grinds, nicotine and booze.  I closed the door and dropped my bags with a weary thud. 

I called her name as I removed my gloves and stepped toward the bedroom.  There was no answer, just the same jarring silence.

It was then I saw the culprit out of the corner of my eye, a little more than half empty, towering above the fatigued remnants of her late night binge.  Jose Cuervo Gold.  I took a long slow look at the smooth amber-colored elixir as it glinted in the darkness next to an assortment of paraphernalia scattered across the table in a perfectly formed juxtaposition – an overflowing ashtray, scattered newspaper, a shot glass keeled over on it side, a dusty salt shaker.  

I recalled the title of a book I had read in Atlanta. 

_Drinking:  A Love Story.___

I rolled my head back against my neck and braced my shoulders for the scene I now knew I would find in her bedroom.  Slowly, I unzipped my jacket as I moved toward the doorway.

I whispered her name again.  "Abby?"

She lay sprawled with her back toward me, fully dressed on top of the covers with just a green afghan carelessly tossed against her lower half.  Though I couldn't see her face, it was obvious that she was in a place immune from the bothersome interference of a buzzing alarm clock.

I took off my jacket and scarf and tossed them carelessly on the floor.

Tentatively, I crawled across the bed and stifled the alarm with my forefinger.  I lay down next to her and placed a protective hand on her shoulder.  I let it linger there for a moment in a gentle caress and closed my eyes, reaching back for the strength that I knew I was going to need to get through the coming day.

Though I had promised not to, all I wanted to do was rescue her.  Fix her.  Protect her.  But I knew I couldn't.  She had made sure of that.  

"And being able to have a casual drink with my friends just makes me feel like I'm past the bad part."

Somewhere the tide had turned.  The bad part was back with a vengeance.  Could the car wreck be far behind?

I had left her for just one night and look where she had turned in my absence.

But it had been a night unlike any other night – one in which her whole world had teetered on the brink of annihilation.

_"Look.  The drinking…the drinking is the drinking.  You know where I stand on that."___

Same place.  Front row center.

But maybe I could back down from my 12-step perch, just long enough to get us through the day.  Until Eric's fate was a little clearer.  I would simply be there for her in her darkest hour, stripped of the need to judge her.  

No questions asked.

The rest would come later.

I got up off the bed and sprung into action.

* * * * *

_When the night falls on you___

_You don't know what to do ___

_Nothing you confess___

_Could make me love you less___

_I'll stand by you___

_I'll stand by you___

_Won't let nobody hurt you___

_I'll stand by you___

I sat in our familiar booth in Doc Magoo's in exasperated aloneness nursing a cup of coffee and staring at a half-eaten cheeseburger.  I absentmindedly leafed through yesterday's edition of the Tribune – anything to help pass the time.

I massaged the back of my neck, the stiffness a souvenir of the forty winks I had caught on Abby's couch before Maggie's arrival.  Somehow, after clearing the evidence of her fling with Jose, I couldn't bring myself to sleep in her bed.

I flipped up my wrist and glanced at my watch.  9:34 pm.  Where was she anyway?

I had been everywhere at once for her today, like some manic modern-day Mr. French.

Tidying up her apartment – dumping ashtrays, wiping countertops, mopping the floor, corking the tequila.

Cooking breakfast and dispensing two aspirin to ease her blurry-eyed hangover.

Squiring the newly blonde Maggie to the ER after she had shown up unannounced at Abby's apartment.

Assuming the role of intermediary between mother and daughter once it became clear that Abby was in no mood to deal with her mother's meddlesome scheme to assist the authorities in the search for Eric.

Jumping into the mix to work on little Jared, the poor little MVA boy accidentally run over by his mother.

Comforting Maggie when Abby refused to see her, gently assuring her that I was now the best person for the job.

Pulling an all-day shift when I was supposed to be diving deep underneath the second largest barrier reef in the world, just to be near her.   

And what had it gotten me?

A warm embrace that had begged for more when the news finally came that Eric's plane had been found intact, tied down at an airstrip near Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan.

Then, without another word, she had mysteriously disappeared.

Initially, I had assumed she had gone off to share the good news with Maggie.  But when one hour stretched into five and I still hadn't heard from her, I couldn't help but feel let down, annoyed, angry.

I should be used to our one-step-forward-two-steps-back tango by now.  Every time I got a little too close for comfort, she did her best to push me away.

It was what always made me come back for more.  Till she finally got it: I really wasn't going anywhere, ever.

I reached under the newspaper and carefully fingered the other piece of reading material I had brought to keep me company.  Suddenly, I felt a presence standing to my left, next to the booth.  I quickly shoved the book back under the Tribune.

I looked up and saw Gallant.  

I motioned for him to sit down and he obliged, unbuttoning his pea coat.  He sat in the booth, his back ramrod straight, nattily dressed, the crisp starch of his shirt collar peeking through his dark sweater.

"I was just on my way to pick up some take-out.  I heard the good news about Eric."

"Yeah.  What a relief."  I wasn't sure how much I wanted to get into it with him.  I decided to change the subject.  "How long are you on for?"

"Seven."  A waitress came by to refill my coffee and inform him that it would be only another few minutes until his order was ready.

In his curiously perceptive way, he sensed that I wanted nothing more than to steer the conversation away from the latest installment in the Wryzenski family travails.  He drew several small circles on the tabletop.  "I'm thinking of applying for an ER residency."

"Really?"  I raised my eyebrows in obvious surprise.  "Let me know if you need a recommendation."

"Thanks."  He seemed to be on a fishing expedition of sorts.  Perhaps he just needed reassurance.

"You're going to make a fine doctor, Gallant, wherever you end up."

"I've had a good teacher."

It was a compliment I hadn't expected and didn't think I deserved. Still, I accepted it gracefully.  

"Thank you.  I might not be as good if I hadn't made so many mistakes along the way."  I couldn't help but think of Lucy.

"I guess we're coming up on a difficult time of year for you."

How had he known?

The confusion must have been written across my face for he shot me a sobering look before whispering softy, "People talk."

I stared down into my coffee cup, my eyes avoiding his.  "Yeah, it's not exactly my favorite time of year.  I mean, it's been three years, and it still seems like yesterday."  I scratched the back of my head.  "In fact, I was just sitting here thinking about what I was doing in the last few moments before my life – and Lucy's – was changed forever."

"Which was?"  I could sense he didn't mean to pry, but instead believed that there was a story I wanted to tell.

"Abby – she was a third-year med student back then – had just lost her first patient, an elderly woman named Mrs. Connelly.  I had treated her husband before he died just a few weeks before.  I could tell that Abby was really spooked about the whole things so I brought her a cup of coffee.  Somehow I knew I'd find her up on the roof.  And that was the very last thing I remembered before my world went black.  At least it was a good memory."

"Was she with Dr. Kovac then?"

"No, not yet.  They didn't get together until just after I got back from rehab in Atlanta and she had agreed to be my sponsor."  

"So it's been a long road for you two."

"I guess you could say that."

He gazed at me thoughtfully.  "Life has a way of working itself out.  Just give her a little more time."

I looked back at him, with a new appreciation for the wisdom he possessed far beyond his years.  He really would make a fine doctor someday.  Benton with a heart.  Talk about a winning combination.

"You haven't seen Abby, have you?"

"Not since a couple of hours ago when I saw her put her mom in a cab in the ambulance bay."

Interesting.

The waitress deposited his order on the table and told him he could take the check to the counter.

He got up and gave my shoulder a quick squeeze.  "I'll see you tomorrow."  

After he left, I pulled out the journal from between the pages of the Tribune and opened it to the first page.  
  
I gazed down at the entry I had made during my flight home from Miami.  
  


_  
Pivotal Moment #1. Valentine's Day 2000. The rooftop of County General Hospital.  
  
Abby -   
  
Remember the night before you left for Nebraska when you asked me, "When did it happen for you, Carter?"  
  
I can't remember what I told you. It just wasn't the truth.  
_  
_The real answer was…up on the roof. Almost three years ago.   
  
My own private ground zero before the word carried connotations of two towering twin skyscrapers buried in rubble.   
  
My Book of Genesis.   
  
The place where it all began.  
  
Before that night, you were just another new med student who occasionally moonlit as an OB nurse, barely more than a blip on my radar screen. But I knew from the moment you recommended aggressive measures to keep Mrs. Connelly alive, that her impending death was going to spook you. Nothing in your medical training thus far had prepared you for it. And I wanted to be there for you, to help pick up the pieces once her heart was stilled.  
  
Once I confirmed with Yosh that you had finished up the death kit, I bought two cups of coffee and set out to find you. Somehow, I knew you'd be up on the roof. Ever since I came to County, it had been a favorite escape hatch of mine whenever I wanted to get far away from the maddening crowd.  
_  
_I can remember the moment I saw you as clear as day.  
  
The way you took slow drags off your cigarette through clenched, freezing fingers as you mourned her loss through tired eyes.  
  
The way you spun around upon my entrance, accepting my coffee offering with a hint of pleased surprise.  
  
The way you playfully teased about wanting to see me warmed up in an incubator in the NICU.   
  
The way you waxed nostalgic about the subtle nuances between the life and death situations found in the ER and OB departments.  
  
The way you asked for the bad news first.   
  
The way you looked away after I told you that you never get used to losing patients and because of the ties that bind us in shaping their destinies, that you'll never ever really be alone up here.  
  
The night a friendship was born.  
  
The night I first fell in mad, never-ending love.   
_  
_Only I didn't know it then.  
  
But I do now.  
  
Though my life was about to change forever then in just a few, short minutes, I was to recall that rooftop encounter with an amazing clarity over the next few days as I drifted in and out of consciousness.   
  
All I could see was your face - alternately punctuated by looks of bemusement, quiet thoughtfulness and simple beauty.  
  
The image never faded nor changed very much, even after the fateful role you played in the steps leading up to my intervention and the long, lonely nights I spent in Atlanta.  
  
Because all I could remember was your face etched across the moonlit Chicago sky.  
  
If I live to be a very old man, whenever I gaze out from that rooftop, the vista will always belong to you.  
_  
_Although we've shared many walks and deep conversations down by the river in the days that have passed since then, oddly enough, we've never returned to our memorable perch high above the Windy City. I'm not sure why.  
  
But I do know that sometime in the very near future, when both of us least expect it, and most likely before you read this entry (so I will indeed look prophetic), I'll take you back there and "make you a present of a little secret."   
_  
_Or at least a simple question.   
  
One I've been mulling around in my mind for quite some time now.  
  
Who knows what your answer will be. Or whether the timing that always seems to elude us will be right.  
  
But a boy can dream.  
  
Abby, no matter what the future holds, all roads will always lead me back to that rooftop.  
  
Because the Valentine's Day that my life nearly ended, will always be the night it also began.  
  
Yours,   
John_  
  
I closed the book, lost somewhere between the memory and the moment.   
  
Then it hit me.  
  
Taking a last sip of coffee, I quickly got up, and hastily reached into my pocket to throw some bills on the table.   
  
Zipping up my jacket, I headed up to the place where I knew that I would find her. 

* * * * *

So if you're mad, get mad 

_Don't hold it all inside___

_Come on and talk to me now___

_And hey, what you got to hide?___

_I get angry too___

_But I'm a lot like you___

I climbed the last step and rounded the bend.  As expected, there she was bundled in a long dark coat  – sitting on a folding chair.  She was smoking a cigarette with her feet propped up on the ledge staring out at the twinkling Chicago panorama.

For a minute, I just stared at her.

"Hey."

She jumped and then immediately proceeded to ground out her half-ingested cigarette with her right sneaker.

"Don't put it out on my account."

"I only wanted half." 

Walking toward her, I replied, "Nobody smokes half a cigarette."

"I do.  And I'm trying to quit."

"Oh, back to that, are we?"  I looked away.  

Although the leave-me-alone tone in her voice and the sight of her enjoying her smoke was eerily reminiscent of the night on her front stoop after Eric and Maggie had headed back to Minneapolis, I knew in my gut that I wasn't going to let her off the hook so easily this evening.  I was ready to give as good as I got.

"I like routine."

"Yeah.  Like disappearing on me."  I looked at her pointedly. 

"I know.  I'm sorry."  

"No problem.  You have bigger concerns."  Like battling your demons, I wanted to say.  Instead, I looked down at my feet, trying to hide the wounded look in my eyes.

"Yeah, like ruining your vacation."  She sounded genuinely remorseful as though it was something she had actually contemplated.  My heart brightened a bit.

"Who knows?  You might have saved me from a shark attack."  I flashed a sanguine smile and walked toward her.

Ultimately, my cause for optimism was a bit premature.

"Run away, Carter.  Run as fast as you can."  She gave me a knowing look.

Where had I heard that line before?  

The night the MPs hauled Eric off to Nebraska.

_"If I were you, I'd run for my life and never look back."___

Though I had traveled some since then, I was still here, still standing, still the constant thing in her life. But, tonight, it was my turn to hold a mirror up to her like she had done for me the night of the symphony fundraiser.  Even if she wasn't going to like what she saw.  

I kicked the chair next to her open, sitting down to face her.  My eyes bore into hers.  Best to ignore the comment and soldier on.

"Where's Maggie?"

"She went home."  She placed her feet back up on the ledge.

"Minnesota?"

"Puuulllease."  Her look told me she should have been so lucky.  

"Well, you want to hide out at my place for awhile?"  I looked down, afraid to hear her answer.

"Did you hear what I said about running away?"  She leaned in toward me, challenging me to look her squarely between the eyes.

"I block out about half of what you say."  Somewhere I got the courage to meet her gaze, telegraphing her a message that suggested there was no more room to hide.

"Only half?"  She raised her eyebrows.

"The negative half."  I smiled ruefully through clenched teeth as I let the comment roll around in the biting night air.  

She sighed and looked away.  

Maybe I had hit a little too close to home.  "Uh, I'm sorry."  My eyes once again glanced downward.

"No, you're right."  She got up.   "I am negative."  She began to walk in the opposite direction, her back toward me.  "It's hard not to be when you attract misery everywhere you go."  She turned around to face me.  

I had come up here on a mission that wouldn't be ruined by her little self-pity party.  Not tonight.

"I'm not going to let you do this."  I ran my fingers through my hair.  The words rolled out of my throat in an unfamiliar cadence, trying their best to deflect her negativity from piercing the mood I had hoped to create.

But she refused to let up.  "I'm like a magnet for it.  And you shouldn't have to deal with this."  

There may have been a time when I would have backed off, buckling under the weight of her attempts to push me away by laying all the blame at her own doorstep.  

Not this time.  I threw the words right back in her face. 

"Now you're pissing me off."  I spat the words out one at a time.

"Maybe you should just cut your losses."

"You know Eric is alive."  I got up flapping my arms, which had gone numb with the cold.    "You could take two seconds and rejoice in that." 

"I did. I hugged you."  She walked back toward me a little.  "And then I ran away to find my crazy mother.  And I never came back to thank you.  Thank you for traveling all night.  Thank you for working all day.  Just to be with me."

"You're welcome."  I laid my hands out as if to say, that wasn't so hard, was it?

"You know, my life is on hold.  It will always and forever be on hold.  You don't want it to be on hold."

The conversation was going nowhere fast.  I needed to cut to the chase.  

I looked down at the ground, rubbing the sole of my shoe against the concrete.  "Well then don't put it on hold."

"I have no choice.  You do."

OK, time to let it rip.

"Right.  Your life sucks.  Now and forever.  There's nobody you can love.  There's nothing you can do about it – " I reverted to my sing-song cadence, turning my head from side to side like a mechanical toy that had been wound up.

"You don't want me to love you – "

"Can I decide that for myself?"  I felt my right eye begin to twitch as my voice rose several octaves.

"Fine.  Decide.  What do you want?"  She looked away.  Somewhere, in the distance, I heard the first faint whoosh of a helicopter.

In my dreams, I had spent untold hours trying to come up with a clever way to broach the subject.  

My mind had looked for inspiration in an orgasmic montage of defining chick flick moments.  

Billy Crystal running through the sidewalks of New York on New Year's Eve in search of Meg Ryan.

Richard Gere standing at the bottom of Julia Roberts fire escape with outstretched arms and a bouquet of flowers between his teeth.

Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan at the top of the Empire State Building.

If I wanted the fairytale, it looked like I would have to create my own.

She had given me my opening.  It was showtime.

"What do I want?  I want you to stop being afraid – "

"I'm not afraid – "

"I want us to stop being careful – "  

"I'm just – "

"I want to marry you – "

She stepped back stunned and looked at me through wide, incredulous eyes.  Perhaps she had heard wrong.  

"What?"

"I want to marry you – " I bellowed, falling forward on my toes for added emphasis, in case they hadn't heard me in Winetka.  I spun around as the snow began to swirl, staring smack dab into the sparkling lights of the approaching helicopter.

She did what she did best.  In her inimitably self-deprecating tone, she made light of my declaration.

"Oh, so you're proposing?"

"Yeah – "

"You're crazy."

Think, Carter, think.  Tell her something only she will understand.  Let her know it's for real.

Suddenly, the line came to me.  And I nailed it.

"Yeah, well, then, I'll fit right in."

Signed, sealed, delivered.  Cocky with glee, I looked in her eyes, trying to gauge her reaction.

I watched her questioning look morph into one that seemed to weigh the dazzling possibilities tendered by my pronouncement once she realized I was dead serious.  She met my wide-eyed gaze, unable to conceal her pleasure, as if she just might take it under advisement.  

I moved closer toward her reaching out a gloved hand to tuck a strand of flyaway hair behind her ear.  I let it linger there a moment.

There was a new game clock ticking in the distance signaling the dawn of another day.

The future started now.

* * * * *

When you're standing at the crossroads 

_Don't know which path to choose___

_Let me come along___

_Cause even if you're wrong___

_I'll stand by you___

_I'll stand by you___

_Won't let nobody hurt you___

_I'll stand by you___

_Take me into your darkest hour___

_And I'll never desert you___

_I'll stand by you___

The movement of her body snuggling closer to me awakened me in the dead of night.  I peered through the darkness at the hands of my alarm clock registering 2:34 am.  I slipped out of bed quietly and wandered into the kitchen, peering into the refrigerator for something to quench my thirst.  I grabbed the only thing I could find, a half-empty bottle of black cherry seltzer.

Wandering back into my bedroom, instead of climbing back into bed, I settled into the club chair across the room, content to watch her sleep from an unfamiliar perch.

What a difference from the way I had found her yesterday.  She slept like an angel.  Her hair fell softly across her face, barely touching the peaceful creases tucked in the corners of her upturned mouth.   

We had driven home in comfortable, wondrous silence trying to absorb the implications of my unexpected rooftop declaration.  

Unlike the day before yesterday, we made love with a gentle tentativeness as if trying to figure out how the evening's events may have shifted the balance between us.  

Though it was still cloaked in delicious ambiguity, the issue was definitely on the table, no doubt about it.  And somehow I needed to deliver on it from a more official pose.

Was she ready?

Would she ever be ready?

And once I got down on bended knee, what answer would she give me?

I ran my fingers across my jaw, trying to decide how much serious thought I had given to popping the question over the past few months and how much of it could be chalked up to the heat of the moment?  Was it merely an attempt to counter her half-hearted efforts to push me away with one grand sweeping gesture sure to silence her into submission?  Or simply a tangible way to rescue her, from herself?  

The truth be told, I still wasn't sure.

I knew I wanted to marry her someday.  It was just a question of when.

Yet, now that I had thrown down the gauntlet, I felt compelled to follow through.  

To give her a fairytale moment.  

An idea was beginning to form in my head.  In a few hours, unbeknownst to her, I decided to begin the day by paying Gamma a visit.

Was I acting impulsively?  Probably.  

Would there be a happily ever after?  With Abby, it was anybody's guess.  But a boy could dream.

Deep down, I knew this:  she loved me as much as the half of her that was still walled off by her insecurities and her unworthiness and her addiction and her fear of abandonment would let her.

I still wasn't quite sure how to reconcile her better half with her more negative one, but if the reality of commitment could get us there faster than our present pace, it would all be worth it.

Though our relationship was still more about the journey than the destination, I still was shooting for the moon.

And I knew what we would find there.

Two halves in perfect symmetry -- at long last whole.

* * * * *

_And when___

_When the night falls on you, baby___

_You're feeling all alone___

_You won't be on your own___

_I'll stand by you___

_I'll stand by you___

_Won't let nobody hurt you___

_I'll stand by you___

* * * * *


	9. Things Her Mother Told Me

_Title:  Things Her Mother Told Me_

_ Description:  Post-ep for "A Thousand Cranes." Ninth chapter in "The Long Way," a series of Season 9 post-eps beginning with "First Snowfall."  Carter's POV._

_Author: KenzieGal (a/k/a It's Always Something)_

_Disclaimer: Carter and Abby do not belong to me - they are the property of the wise and wealthy minds of TPTB at Warner Brothers.  No copyright infringement intended._

_Notes:  This is the fourth in a series of crossover post-eps with SunniSkies' (a/k/a Lanie) highly acclaimed  "Reflections" series, which will continue throughout the remainder of Season 9.  Look for her to pick up the story thread in "Every Girl's Dream," her current post-ep (Chapter 14) to "A Thousand Cranes."  As mentioned previously, while the two post-eps are meant to be read in tandem and there is a common thread interwoven through our chapters, our work remains faithful to Abby (hers) and Carter's (mine) points of view.  Her chapters won't exactly parallel mine and vice versa.   _

_The song playing in the background is "Call It A Loan," by Jackson Browne.  For those of you too young to remember, no one did angst better than he did  in the 1970s.  Not only do the lyrics cued up for each scene offer a stunning backdrop for Carter's shifting thoughts, but the haunting strains of the melody are filled with an aching loneliness that was written all over his face by the end of the episode.  Give it a listen if you can find it somewhere ("Running on Empty," 1978) to download. _

_As always, epic gratitude to  Pemberley for her amazing attention to technical detail in all things carby.  That's why she's the official carby historian.   Thanks also to  DeeDee from the Carby Board for the info on the Cantare Restaurant (can you believe I sent my sister-in-law who lives in downtown Chicago to scope it out – and you were right, it wasn't the Sirloin Saloon, only the Cantare has a separate street entrance).  Also to Taylor Wise whose work and words of wisdom continue to amaze and inspire me.  And to Anna for her unflagging support and assorted witticisms from across the ocean._

_After previewing the document at ff.net, it looks like I'm having trouble with the italics function in MS Word…so you'll need to imagine that Carter's lines at the restaurant which refer to his earlier conversation with Maggie are merely running through his head…he doesn't actually say them…he just thinks them.  Otherwise it can get a tad confusing…_

_Spoilers: Everything during Season 9 up to and including "A Thousand Cranes."_

_Read and enjoy.  This one was a tough nut to crack, especially from Carter's corner.  I'd love to hear your thoughts._**__**

* * * * * 

_In the morning when I closed my eyes_

You were sleeping in paradise 

_And while the room was growing light_

_I was holding still with all my might_

_Oh – what if it's true_

_What my heart says_

_Oh – what'll I do_

_What if this feeling becomes hard to part with_

Alone in my apartment, I don a pair of wrinkled green scrubs in preparation for the graveyard shift, my eyes never leaving an unopened blue velvet box that had the power to change everything.

_My wife._

I toss the word out there, my ears warming to the unfamiliarly delicious sound of it.

Chuckling to myself, I conjure up an image of her floating down the aisle in a cloud of white tulle to the strains of "Trumpet Voluntary" on Gamma's front lawn.  __

"Do you Abigail take thee John…" 

Coming back down to earth, I realize I'm probably getting a little too far ahead of myself.  

First things first.

First, I have to ask the question.  Properly this time.

Two nights ago, in a life-altering moment of enlightened exasperation, I had bared my soul by shouting my intentions above the din of a whirring helicopter from the rooftop of County General Hospital.

What had I told her really?

That I wanted to marry her at some as-yet-to-be determined date?

That I thought I'd fit right in with her crazy family?

Though I had nailed the moment, now it was time to close the deal.

Never mind the fact that I had no idea what her answer would be.

Slowly, I walk over to the spot on the kitchen counter where I had carefully placed the item in question.  

Picking it up, I open the box.  

Inside rested a sparkling oval diamond encircled by a ring of smaller diamonds on a hand-engraved band of platinum.  My great grandfather Carter had presented it to his intended bride shortly before heading to Europe to fight the Great War, long before returning to keep his promise and seek his fortune in the coal industry.  Although Gamma had worn it on special family occasions, its lineage had skipped a generation.  My grandfather had left it to me in his will, with the caveat that I present it to my future wife.

Smitten by the mirages of light that danced across the darkened room, I run my finger across the top of its colorless center, captivated by its simple, exquisite beauty.  Though there would be the invariable snickers about its size, which weighed in at just over two carats, it could hardly be branded gaudy.  It would suit Abby –- and her left ring finger – quite well.

My plans for a fairytale proposal had come together quickly.   Yesterday, I had bought out the Cantare Ristorante in the Seneca Hotel, recently voted by Tribune readers as Chicago's most romantic restaurant.  And earlier tonight, I had enlisted Alger's assistance in retrieving the ring from the wall safe in Gamma's library where I had stashed it a year and a half ago for safekeeping.  Though the bemused look on his craggy face had been priceless, he was too much of a gentleman to ask any questions.  I knew my secret was safe with him – for at least a little while.

Now came the hard part.

What to say that would leave indelible footprints on her heart?  

What to tell her on bended knee about the sweetest feeling I had ever known?  

Everything I had tried to string together up until this point had seemed hokey and inadequate.

Suspended in a sea of words somewhere between flatness and depth, reality and reflection, I had even resorted to reciting a series of classic movie one-liners in a desperate search of inspiration.

**_Here's looking at you kid._**

Too clichéd.****

**_You make me want to be a better man._**

****

Too corny.

**_You complete me._**

Too trite.

Suddenly, I recall a snowy night a couple of weeks ago when we had stopped at a video rental store in search of a movie that could put a better spin on a particularly grueling day.

Wandering through the aisles, she had playfully leaned in and asked me, "What's your favorite love story?"

I looked at her thoughtfully for a minute.

_Ours_, I wanted to say.

I took a safer route instead.

We rented Casablanca.

Yet, now, sifting through the meagerness of the words at my disposal, I know that my only real choice is to pick and choose among them to tell our story.

After all, it's the only one that really matters.

And so, in the back of my mind, the words begin to form.

**Abby, I spend 23 hours a day wondering whether we're wrong for each other… **

****

* * * * *

_You were meant to play your part_

In the design of a desperate heart 

_And while you gave your love to me_

_I was betting I was getting it free_

_Oh – if I'd only known_

_What your heart cost_

_Oh – can we call it a loan?_

_And a debt that I owe,_

_On a bet that I lost_

I gaze out over the dashboard of the Jeep and into a foggy sea of crimson taillights backed up across the Eisenhower Parkway.  Several horns blared in the distance.

"I've never seen it like this," I mumble disbelievingly.  

Glancing at the dashboard clock, I estimate that we'd been sitting in traffic for at least forty minutes.  It was looking increasingly unlikely that I'd have time for a quick shower before my rendezvous with Abby.

Maggie's voice is quietly reassuring.  "It's okay. There'll be a later bus."  I nod my head in appreciation.

I had followed her into the ambulance bay after she had exchanged a frazzled, incomplete goodbye with her daughter.  Though she tried hard to compose herself through tear-stained cheeks and quivering lips, she had been overcome by the prospect of venturing back to Minneapolis and the indeterminate waiting for Eric to resurface.  The best I could offer her was a clean handkerchief and a ride to the bus station.

Looking for something to help pass the interminable wait, I pop in the disc that's sitting in the CD player.  The Jeep is immediately sensurrounded by the blaring sounds of Abby's band du juor – "Debaser" by The Pixies.

"Yaaaooo," I laugh as I hit the eject button and search for a more mellow selection.  For now, Sheryl Crow's "Diamond Road" would suffice.

"That's not your music.  That's Abby's.  She always liked that noise."  Maggie seems to find the renewed reminder of her daughter's musical tastes amusing.

"I'm getting used to it."

Suddenly, there's a knock on the window.  I zip open the plastic and am greeted by a female police officer who informs us that there's an accident up ahead.  Sensing my restlessness, she advises, "Sit tight and we'll keep you posted."  I thank her politely and zip the window shut as she moves on to the car in front of us.

Looking over at me, Maggie picks up the thread of our conversation in a repentant voice.  "Thank you for doing this, John.  I know it's a huge inconvenience."

If she only knew the half of it, I muse, stealing a glance at my watch.

"It's no problem."  I shake my head for added emphasis.

"I'm sorry for getting so upset.  I hate being so pathetic.  Just the idea of going home alone…waiting…" her voice trails off.

I look over at her and nod.  "Eric'll turn up," My tone is gentle.

"Yeah. Yeah, but I worry…about both of them."

I try to assuage her worry without tipping my hand too much.  "Abby's good," I smile at the mention of her name.  "You know, we're both good.  You don't have to worry about that."  I can feel myself bite my lip and then run my tongue across them.  Abby's habits were rubbing off on me.

"She told me…she told me you might get married?"  

"Is that what she said?" I raise my eyebrows, confident that more choice words had been used to describe my rooftop declaration.

Maggie laughs, catching on to where I was going.  "No.  She told me you proposed."

I waggle my hand at her.

"Oh, I know she's work, it runs in the family…but she's so worth it," she smiles.  I burst out laughing, thinking back to the reference I had made about "fitting right in."

"Yeah."  I nod knowingly.

I toy with the idea of telling her.

Earlier that morning, during our graveyard stint, I had shown Susan the ring, drawing confidence from the way she had been suitably impressed.  Later on, after she had overheard me surreptitiously ask Abby if she were interested in going out for sushi once we were both off, Susan, employing her best yenta imitation, had cautioned me to avoid any more misdirection in laying my cards out on the table.  Instead, she had encouraged me to "show my hand."

And so, I opt for a dry run of my proposal speech on Maggie.  If nothing else, it would help me test the waters and try the words on for size.  To see if they would fit. 

I shift and sit up in my seat, inhaling a big gulp of air.  

Here went nothing.

Or everything.

"I spend 23 hours a day wondering whether we're wrong for each other, wondering whether we've got the energy that we need to get through everything that we seem to get into…"  

"…Whether the baggage we both bring would sink a small ship, but, um…" I gaze out the window at the brightening sky.  

Somewhere overhead, a helicopter illuminates the sky, the pulsing sound of its rotor reverberating across the roadway.

Once again, my very own personal eye in the sky.

I take it as my cue to continue.

"…In the 24th hour, I realize I've been thinking about her for 23 hours, and I come back to…there's something about her," I cast Maggie a soulful glance, "…that I can't stay away from.  Something about her that makes me want to…" I pause, chuckling, searching for the right word.  Wrenching it from the space between thought and reality, I roll it firmly into the thick night air. 

"…love her…"  

There.  I smile and shake my head, amazed that I finally owned my feelings.  All of them.

I shoot her a look that begs the question, "How'd I do?"

She smiles, a far off look in her eyes.

For a moment, neither of us speak.

I pull the blue box out of my jacket pocket and hand it to her.  Then I climb out of the car for a better look at what's keeping us standing still.

Maggie is still gazing at the ring twinkling in the dusky glow of the dashboard lights when I return.  Having gotten the words right, I'm growing increasingly anxious to use them on their intended recipient.

"John, it's beautiful.  Absolutely beautiful."

I straighten my scarf and coat collar as she hands me back the box.

She picks up her knitting that had sat idle in her lap during most of our trip with a faraway look in her eye.  "Oh.  Marriage can be a great thing," she says to almost no one in particular.

"Can be."  Suddenly, I wasn't in the mood for any more deep introspection.

"Yeah."  She pauses, seemingly in the midst of a conversation with herself.  "What the hell do I know?  Mine failed.  For many reasons.  You sure as hell don't want my advice."

She was right.  I didn't.

She continues waxing nostalgic anyway.  "But I would think that kind of commitment to somebody – you have to be ready for anything."

I purse my lips, the strains of Tom Petty's "The Last DJ" filling my head.

"Or nothing."  I put my hand to my head.  "You never know what's going to happen."  I look out the window and rub my face.

The ever-present helicopter continues its cartwheels in the sky.

She returns my volley.  "Or you do."

I knock my hands on the steering wheel, suddenly claustrophobic.  "You mean the drinking?"  Our eyes met.  I wasn't sure where she was going with this.

"I drank, I smoked when I was younger."  She sighes.  "It took having a baby to make me stop.  Smoking, at least.  I always went back to the drinking.  Maybe Abby will be stronger."  

I look away, pushing my neck back into my shoulder blades.

"Have you two talked about this?" she asks.  

Babies?  Drinking?  Smoking?  I still wasn't quite sure what we were talking about.

I pick one randomly.  "About having kids?"  My eyes face front as I shake my head.

Maggie nods.

I choose the path of least resistance.  "I know she worries about passing on the disease."

"She and Richard never communicated, ever, I don't think."  Our conversation was veering wildly off the reservation.  A piercing pain shoots through my right eye at the mention of his name.  I rub it in a futile attempt to make it stop.

"Really."  _Please, Maggie, let's not go there._

I shouldn't have given her the slightest encouragement that I'd hope she continue to regale me with stories of Abby's doomed first marriage.  

"I think that they loved each other at first, but he had all these expectations that she never realized."  I fidget with the ends of my scarf.  "He didn't understand her."

I stare straight ahead.  I'd tell her what I thought she wanted to hear.

"Well, I'm not walking into this blind."

"No, no, no.  I don't think you are.  I just don't…want…"

"Yes?" 

"I…I just don't want you to fix her."

"Abby doesn't need to be fixed."  I feel as though I'm quoting from some agreed upon manifesto.  The gospel according to Maggie.

"Or heal her.  Or change her."

"I love her."

"I just don't want you to be waiting for her to change."

"I'm not."

"She's an amazing person."

"I know who she is."  I prop my hand up behind my ear as if to put her on notice that after spending the last three years with her, perhaps I was in a position to know her daughter better than she did.

She remains undaunted.  "She's an amazing person with certain weaknesses, and you'd be lucky to have her even with those weaknesses.  But you have to love her even if she never changes anything."

I look at her disbelievingly, my elbow still propped up against the door.  After cycling in and out of manic depression for the past 20 years, how could Maggie possibly deem her daughter incapable of changing?  She had been right the first time.  What the hell did she know?

Still, Maggie's cautionary words had rattled me.  If Abby and I were to take this quantum leap together, I had to know that there was a fluidity and grace to our movements, that we were partners in the same pattern.  Weren't all of the subtle and seismic shifts in our relationship over the past three years living proof of that?

That we could grow.  

We could change.  

We could become.  

Together.

Before I could ask her to spend the rest of her life with me, I had to hear her it in her own voice.

In her own words.

Suddenly, it was all I wanted to know.

And I was sure it was exactly what she would tell me.   

* * * * *

_In the evening when you see my eyes_

_Looking back at you, no disguise_

I'm not sure who you think you'll see 

_I'm just hoping you'll still know that it's me_

_Oh – what if it's true_

_Better ask the man inside_

_Oh, oh – there seem to be two_

_One steals the love, and the other one hides_

As the waitress clears the last of our entrée dishes in the empty restaurant, we sweep the crumbs across the tabletop in unison.  

Seated across from me, she leans into the table, hands clasped.  She smiles demurely.  "Are you going to tell me what this is about?"

I had found her standing outside the hotel on East Chestnut Street shivering between two brightly lit topiary trees in the chilly night air.  Apologizing for the traffic delay, I spun her around into the restaurant entrance, my hand tingling with excitement as I pushed the small of her back through the doorway.

We had eaten our entrees in pregnant silence, the clanging of porcelain on silverware commingled with the ripe sounds of unspoken possibilities.

"We both just deserve a break, especially after a day like today."  I look down, examining my fingernails.  Despite the sounds of Susan's advice swirling inside my head, I was still keeping my cards close to the vest.  The conversation with Maggie had taken me out of my game. 

She looks down at the table.  "Hmmm.  More like a month."  She peers around behind her before her gaze sweeps across the vacant room.  Undaunted by my caginess, she persists, "But what's it really all about?"

I raise my eyebrows and shake my head as I lean back in my seat.

It was showtime.

**I spend 23 hours a day wondering whether we're wrong for each other…wondering whether we've got the energy that we need to get through everything that we seem to get into…whether the baggage we both bring would sink a small ship…**

Or was it?

Before I can pour my heart out to her, I have to take her temperature.  Maggie had made sure of that.

"So you think this is a keeper?"  I look pointedly at her.

Hands still clasped, she smiles coyly.  "The restaurant?"

She certainly wasn't making it easy.

"Us.  You and me."  Music, almost as if on cue, begins to softly play in the background.

Her expression grows uncertain.  "Are you okay?"  She shakes her head and tucks her hands underneath her chin.

**But in the 24th hour, I realize I've been thinking about you for 23 hours…** Words I had never planned to say suddenly fill my head.  Awkwardly, I struggle to wrap my tongue around them.  I nod, staring into her eyes, lifting my eyebrow for emphasis.  "I've…uh…spent a long time looking for a relationship that I thought would stick."  My voice sounds tentative, halting, unfamiliar.  I make a sticking gesture with my hands.  She looks back at me expectantly.      

"Sometimes it was the wrong person.  Sometimes I guess I wasn't ready.  Or…uh…in the right place." I wave my hand dismissively and gaze downward.  "I think I am now."  I look up, fixing my eyes on her.  "I really think I am now.  Are you?"  My last words are barely audible.  Probably because I was barely breathing.

"John…" She smiles shyly and shifts her eyes, then opens her mouth to explain further.  

The rush of adrenalin pumping through me cuts her off before she can get the words out.  

**_…and I come back to there's something about you that I can't stay away from…something about you that makes me want to stick by your side 24/7…_**

"Because I really want this **to stick."**

She nods her head as her eyes bore into mine with uncanny certainty.  "Me too."

My heart leaps at her vote of confidence.  

"I know that…uh…"  I reach into the pocket of my jacket and pull out the blue box, resting it on my thigh.  

**…something about you that just makes me want to…love you.  Love you forever….**

****

"We've had a rough time and there's still a lot of stuff we have to get through.  But we're doing okay.  We're…" I couldn't help but chuckle.  "…growing…we're changing."

I grow heady at the thought that my journey is nearly complete.  

**Will you marry me?**

"Do you?"  I nod, willing her to answer affirmatively.

Instead, a faraway look settles upon her face.  She opens her mouth to answer, then thinks better of it and pauses for a moment, the words still forming on her lips.  

"I don't know if people ever really change."

I could feel my face falling.  As my eyes avert hers, I notice that the tint of the amber table lamp bears a striking resemblance to the color of Jose Cuervo gold.

"But I know what you mean."  She looks at me hopefully.

"You do?"  

"I think I do."

There is no doubt in my mind that the Abby I had pined away for since the night I was stabbed had changed irrevocably in the three years since.  

And not just her outward appearance as I drink in the blonde highlights in her hair and the soft way her silver satin blouse falls across her chest.  

No, the Abby sitting across from me had managed to stay sober for five years, embraced nursing as her career destination, accepted Eric's disease, mended fences with her mother and let me become the constant thing in her life.

She had grown.  She had changed.  

She just couldn't see it.  

Or wouldn't let herself.  

She wasn't in the same place as me.

Not yet anyway.

Until she could hold her face up to the light, until she could lay bare every last feeling, she could never fully commit to me.  

Nor could I fully commit to her.

Until then, the ring would stay where it belonged.  

In the box.  

And so I did the hardest thing that I had ever done.

I put the ring back in my pocket.

I hope she couldn't hear the wrenching sound of my heart breaking.

I do my best to regroup, smiling sweetly at her.  "Uh…mmmm…mmmm…mmmm.  Let's see what's for dessert."  I study the dessert menu, my eyes bulging to hold back an errant tear. 

She purses her lips, then bites them.  She looks like she had missed something.  "That's it?  You bought out this whole place just for that?"  

I press my hand to my mouth and look at her, part of me still grieving for what might have been.

"That…and the chocolate soufflé."  I manage a wan smile.

I hand her the dessert menu.  

* * * * *

_Yeah – can we call it a loan?_

_'Till I'm paid in full for the seeds I've sown_

_Yeah – can we say that I've grown?_

_In some way that we may have yet to be shown_

"Feeling any better?"

Clad in a pair of loose fitting blue scrubs that I surmise had once belonged to Luka, I walk into the kitchen as she's evenly dividing the water from the red steaming tea kettle into two brightly colored mugs.

I wipe my cheek with the damp hand towel that hangs around my neck.  

"A little.  Showers have a way of working wonders."  There's a hoarseness in my voice that wasn't there earlier.  "Though it looks like the chocolate soufflé did me in."  I wince as I gingerly press my right fingers across my abdomen for dramatic effect.

I had faked an upset stomach with the hope of crawling quietly into bed and into the arms of solitude's hollow abyss.  Though the arctic char and chocolate soufflé were still haggling over which one would lead the roiling tango through my mid-section, it wasn't anything that would have prevented an amorous cap to the evening under different circumstances.

"Here.  Maybe this'll help."  She hands me a steaming mug.  I notice that she had moved my jacket and tie, which I had carelessly thrown across the kitchen table before heading into the bathroom, onto the back of the sofa.  

"I think I'm going to change now," Her face is a bemused mixture of weariness and melancholy.

I grab her shoulders as she attempts to scoot around me in the doorframe.

"Hey," I pull her close, catching a whiff of her sweet-smelling perfume.  While I still grieved for the moment that never materialized, it was hard to stay mad at her for very long.

She pulls away a little quicker than I would like.  "It's been a long day," she murmurs, before heading into the bedroom.

I flop down on the couch and sip my tea.

I must have dozed off, for the next thing I know she's sitting next to me wearing a red plaid nightshirt.

I can hear her voice in the far off distance as I open my eyes, talking to no one in particular.

"When I got the call from the ER this morning, about the shooting at Doc Magoo's, Maggie and I were sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast.  And all I could do was ask whether anyone was in there.  Anyone from the ER.  Anyone who might have been you."

I sit up and smile at her somberly, wincing for real this time as a sharp ache hammers my belly.  "Chen and Luka were pretty spooked by it all."

She glances over at me, surprised to see me awake.

"At least one of them survived."

"Maggie get home OK?"

"No, her bus pulled off the highway somewhere near Tomah, Wisconsin in the middle of a snow storm."

"How'd she sound?"

"Holding up as best she can.  Still worried about where Eric might be.  She's finding it hard living on the outside of the disease.  She never thought things looked so much differently from the inside."

"Maybe now that she's back on her meds, she'll get over fear of flying."

She rolls her eyes.  "She asked me to thank you again for the ride." 

"It was no problem."  I rub my chin and settle back against the cushions with a shrug.

"How long were you two stuck in traffic?"

"About an hour."

"Wow.  What'd you guys talk about?"

A searing pain suddenly rips through my lower abdomen.  Be careful what you wish for.

"Everything and nothing.  Mostly we just listened to The Pixies."  I manage a weak smile as I clutch my stomach and grit my teeth, waiting for the ache to subside. 

I cautiously rise off the couch.  "Listen, I'm still feeling kind of crappy.  I think I'm going to turn in."

Padding off to the bedroom, I stop and turn around, spooked by the silence.

"You coming?"  I toss it out almost as an afterthought.  

"I think I'm going to stay up for awhile.  You look like you could use the sleep."

I go over and lay a hand on her shoulder, brushing my lips behind her ear before heading back toward the bedroom.

For the first time in a long time, sleep comes instantly.

I awake during the quiet hour between darkness and dawn, feeling oddly refreshed.  The pain in my stomach had eased a bit, though the hole in my heart was still another story.  Abby lay next to me, her head burrowing into my chest, her arm slung protectively under my rib cage. 

I disentangle myself from her grasp and wander into the living room.  I reach for my jacket, still neatly folded across the back of the sofa, and fish out the blue box from the left pocket.  

I can't bring myself to look inside.  It was supposed to be empty now.  I decide to transfer it to a safer haven, inside my satchel bag.  

After tucking it in the front flap, my fingers graze the edge of the familiar spiral bound notebook that I had taken to carrying wherever I went these days.  I open it to the first blank page, knowing full well the irony in the next entry waiting to be written.

**_Pivotal Moment #2:  Our First Hot Fudge Sundaes at Doc Magoo's._**

**__**

I suddenly need to put pen to paper while the thoughts are still fresh in my mind.

I bring the journal over to the kitchen table and sit down.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see its twin companion on the counter with a pen crossed diagonally on top of it.  Someone else was taking the assignment seriously.  I take it as an encouraging sign.  Though I'm tempted to sneak a peek inside, I feel compelled to maintain the spirit of our unspoken agreement.  

Instead, I begin to write.

February 20, 2003 

_Abby, _

I doubt I'll ever set foot in Doc Magoo's again without my thoughts turning back to this moment.  Like our first time on the roof, everything about it is still as clear as day.  I can still see you first come into view outside the window as you danced between the raindrops and skipped over a puddle.  I can still taste the nicotine in the cigarette I was smoking as you dashed in for your coffee to go.  I can still sense the unsettling, but now familiar, flip-flop that cascaded through my chest as I admired your new hairdo and funky scrubs. 

_I thought I must have been hallucinating when I saw you from a distance at the AA meeting that morning. I couldn't imagine what could have brought you there.  You had been on my mind so much of the time I was in Atlanta, mostly in the context of what might have happened if you had never caught me injecting the fetanyl.  _

_The day you saved my life.  _

_It's ironic that Pivotal Moments Number Two came up on the journal roulette wheel right now.  _

_Because there are so many interesting parallels between that night and last night._

_Hot fudge sundaes and chocolate soufflé._

_What was said then.  And what remains unsaid now._

_That night, after climbing my way to the ninth rung, I asked your forgiveness for acting like a complete jerk when you just might have saved my life.  And, once I learned the real reason behind your appearance at the meeting that morning, I popped a spur-of-the moment question that certainly put you on the spot. _

_But with the typical aplomb that I was slowly coming to see and appreciate in you, you mulled it over and surprised me with your answer.  Although I know your role as my sponsor has been blurred at times over the years, it's something else that you've done for me for which I doubt I can ever fully repay you.  So once again, a belated thank you.      _

_Last night, was a little different.  _

_Last night, there was a question I meant to ask you, that for a variety of reasons never got posed.  _

_In hindsight, it was a question that you probably weren't ready to answer any more than I was ready to ask.  _

_So I've decided to table it for awhile.  _

_I hope the time is right again someday.   _

_Because it's a question that's been in the back of my mind for some time now._

_It's a question in which the answer – your answer – has the power to change everything._

_So, just like the night in Doc Magoo's, I'm begging your forgiveness one more time.  _

_This time for the question I didn't ask.  And the patience to take a leap of faith with me to get us to the next place._

_A place where I hope it's once again on the table._

Abby, just as our first trip up to the roof will always be the moment when you first appeared on my radar screen, our first hot fudge sundaes in Doc Magoo's will always be the meridian in my relationship with you.  

The invisible line in the sand that irrevocably separates everything that happened before from everything that has happened since.  

Like water gaining momentum as it trickles downstream, all my feelings for you flow from that once upon a time.  

Since then, I've measured the longitude and latitude of my time on this earth by when I'm with you or when I was last with you or when I'll be with you again.

It's the only time that will ever really matter to me.

_Yours,_

_John _

I put down my pen and rub the back of my neck, my thoughts still filled with how far we both had come since that fateful night.

I'm reminded of something she had mentioned about Maggie before I went to bed.  Something about her mother having a hard time adjusting to living on the outside of the disease.

The same could be said about Abby's and my relationship.

For the most part, I was the one on the inside, down deep in the trenches, for months doing all of the chasing and most of the work, while she danced around the periphery, with her nose pressed up against the glass.  Up until recently, she had made no attempt to come inside.  

Now, as much as she may have wanted to, she still struggled to find the door that would lead her to the inner sanctum where I waited patiently.

There was no map, no blueprint I could show her to help her figure it out.

It was something she would have to do it all by herself.

Would she ever find her way?

And if she did, would I still be there waiting on bended knee?

There was no way to know for sure.  

The best I could do right now was sit back and continue on the long, long journey with her.

And hope that the answer somehow revealed itself to us.  

In that familiar place, the repository of all of my hopes and dreams and best laid plans for tomorrow and every day after.

In the 24th hour.

* * * * * 

_Oh – if I'd only known_

What your heart cost 

_Oh – can we call it a loan?_

_And a debt that I owe_

_On a bet that I lost_


	10. Between Worlds

**Title:  Between Worlds** Description:  Post-ep for "The Advocate." Tenth chapter in "The Long Way," a series of Season 9 post-eps beginning with "First Snowfall."  Carter's POV.   Author: KenzieGal (a/k/a It's Always Something)   Disclaimer: Carter and Abby do not belong to me - they are the property of the wise and wealthy minds of TPTB at Warner Brothers.  No copyright infringement intended. 

_Spoilers:_ Everything during Season 9 up to and including "The Advocate."  And a bit of foreshadowing from spoilers for "Finders Keepers" and the as-yet-untitled Episode #19.

Notes:  This is the latest installment in a series of crossover post-eps with Sunni's (a/k/a Lanie) highly acclaimed  "Reflections" series, which will continue throughout the remainder of Season 9.  Look for her to pick up the story thread in "Things That You Said" her current post-ep (Chapter 15) to "The Advocate."  As mentioned in prior chapters, while the two post-eps are meant to be read in tandem and there is a common thread interwoven through our chapters, our work remains faithful to Abby (hers) and Carter's (mine) points of view.  Her chapters won't exactly parallel mine and vice versa.   The song cued up at the outset of each scene is "Maybe" by Dana Glover.  It's Track #6 on "Testimony," her remarkable debut CD, a veritable treasure trove of carby song lyrics.  Just ask Lanie who incorporated "Thinking Over" (Track #2) into her companion post-ep.  Even better, Dana's earned the Pemberley "Official Carby Historian" seal of approval.  I recommend it highly. 

The excerpt from Carter's journal entry is from "The Little Prince" by Antoine De Saint-Exupery, first published in 1943, a year before the author's plane vanished over the Mediterranean during a reconnaissance mission for his French air squadron.

Mega thanks and heaps of praise, as usual, to Pemberley, Taylor Wise and Anna, my carby confidantes extraordinaire.  And to my steadfast reviewers of the past few chapters --  starbright, flutiedutiedute, carby luva 313, Jane McCartney, lilyhead, jakeschick, Megan Star, soulofanangel, Flirty Friend, Konstantin92, DeeDee, dramabelle and Ceri   – your feedback continues to delight and inspire.

Once upon a time last fall, I found myself drawn to the Abby-centric writings of a fan fic author by the pen name of Sunni.  Somehow, I sensed this amazing person peeking out from underneath the lilting cadence of Abby's musings.  On a lark, I sent her an e-mail challenging her to do a Carter POV post-ep for "Walk Like A Man."  She painted me – and her many fans – the Mona Lisa of post-eps.  And slowly drew me into themagical world of fan fic (though at times it's felt like I've been sucked into a vacuum cleaner).  And so, Lanie, for that – and the warmth and understanding and friendship you have extended to me through cyberspace – I am unabashedly grateful.  

As always, reviews (even of the monosyllabic variety) are welcomed and appreciated.

  * * * * * Here I go climbing a mountain 

_It's much too high for me___

_And here I go crossing the ocean___

_Losing myself, getting lost in the sea___

_Where did I go wrong___

_When did I stop singing a love song___

* * * * *

She sits across from me at a softly lit corner table at the Union League Club of Chicago, meticulously slicing a wedge of melon through gnarled, though elegantly manicured fingers.  She would have made a good surgeon.

The one constant thing in my life.

The woman who would always be more of a mother than the icy love-me-not who had spawned me.

My Gamma.

I feel the ripple of quiet confidence punctuate the wood-paneled room, the kind of inimitable self-assurance that only money can buy.  All around us well-heeled men and women huddle together over breakfast – attorneys lingering over coffee before setting out to uphold corporate greed at white shoe law firms, investment bankers sipping tomato juice poised to do battle with the bear market's assault on the mercantile exchange's psyche, plastic surgeons munching on Danish all the while wondering how they'd squeeze in a squash game amid the daily torrent of tummy tucks and botox injections.   

"I'm thinking of doing a two-week tour of duty in the Congo with Doctor's Without Borders."  

I push pieces of my as-yet untouched mushroom omelet around on the plate in small concentric circles, its reflection casting a muted glow against my fork's silvery shadow.  The thought of ingesting even a morsel or two was immediately met with a militant rumble deep in the cavern of my belly.  Everything since the chocolate soufflé had tasted like sawdust.

She looks up from her slicing, a bemused twinkle dancing in her eyes, her trademark pearls and matching button earrings, a gift from my grandfather during the early days of their courtship.    

"Why am I no longer surprised by anything that you tell me?"

I let out a low chuckle and impulsively lay a hand over hers.  "I didn't do it to get a rise out of you.  It's something I've been thinking about for awhile.  I'm getting a little restless in the ER."

"Getting a little bored with your new toys?"  I assume she's referring to the metal detectors and spruced up waiting room accoutrements.  I wonder where she's getting her information.

"Nah, it's something I've been thinking about for awhile.  Medicine on the frontlines in its purest form.  Can't be any more dangerous than County."

She opens her mouth, forming a small 'o,' then thinks better of it, and instead draws her napkin up to her mouth, expertly blotting her pale pink lipstick.  "Is your friend going with you?"

My heart leaps at her intimation, though I was becoming increasingly skilled at keeping my cards close to the vest, somewhere in the vicinity of the blue box that still resides in its now familiar perch inside my jacket pocket.  

"Luka – Dr. Kovac's -- already done three stints with them.  He's a big advocate – "

Her eyes pierce mine across the table.  "I meant your lady friend."

Reflexively, I feel my jaw tighten.  This isn't how I had planned to tell her.  

"This isn't about Abby.  Or me and Abby."  I let her name marinate in the space between us for a moment.  As always, the sound of it instinctively upturns the corners of my mouth.  "She has nothing to do with this."  I carefully brush a trail of crumbs to the center of the table and signal for the check.

Gamma sighs and places her napkin on the table as a bus boy clears the dishes.   

I curse myself silently for keeping Abby under wraps during the early days of our courtship, away from Gamma and her discerning eyes and probing questions.  Why had I fought so hard to keep my love a secret from her?  How could I begrudge her for wanting what she wanted for me – a beautiful adoring wife and a gaggle of tow-headed, apple-cheeked cherubs frolicking on her front lawn – when I had never given her any indication that Abby could fit the bill?

I feel the muscles in my mouth soften as I watch her sign the tab with the impeccable flourish of her pen.

"So what's the Foundation up to these days?"

She shoots me a devilish grin, telegraphing an instant message that she accepts the invisible olive branch I've extended.  "I got the impression after our conversation at the symphony gala that you weren't really interested."  I hear the faint sound of tongue meeting cheek.

"Try me again."

I could see the wheels of the mental rolodex whirling through her mind.  "Let's see.  We're underwriting the food and beverage tent for the annual Northwestern Dance Marathon.  Did you know those youngsters raised close to $1 million last year in a single weekend?  And then there's the annual gala for the after school arts enrichment program – we're moving it to the aquarium this year.  Have to stay fresh you know.  Oh, and we're helping Gilda's Club buy the brownstone next door."

"The cancer support clubhouse down on Wells Street?"  I raise my eyebrows.  "You're not suddenly going all soft on me?"

She withdraws an antique silver compact from her purse, carefully checking the corners of her mouth for errant crumbs.  "Hardly.  The executive director simply called and invited me to tea and a tour of the place.  And flat out asked.  Spunky little thing.  Kind of reminded me of your old friend Carol Hathaway."  

I flick my wrist to check my watch.  "My shift starts in less than an hour.  Can your driver give me a lift to County?"  She nods, pushing back her chair from the table and handing me a Burberry umbrella as I rise to help her to her feet.        

We ride in a not uncomfortable silence, the tires of the limousine making gentle whooshing sounds as they roll across the rain-soaked pavement.  Gamma, clad in a fashionable black coat and gray silk scarf, looks as though she had been suddenly swallowed up by her thoughts, her hand resting carefully on the door handle. 

I gaze up absently through the passenger side window at the overcast city skyline.  Everywhere I look I see her face.

Despite the hopefulness I had felt leaving her apartment the morning after my non-proposal, a palpable malaise had engulfed me in the four weeks since.  In the immediate aftermath, we had both been lulled back into the vortex of a familiar complacency, going about our daily routine as though nothing much had happened.  But even that had disintegrated lately.  

It hadn't helped that the scheduling fairies and their impeccable sense of timing had seen fit to tinker with our comfortable routine, as though they too had placed misdirection on speed dial.  For the past few days, I had drawn the day shift while Abby worked nights.  I had spent each successive night alone, wolfing down the evening's take-out du juor before crawling into bed and the sudden bursts of dark, fitful sleep that awaited me there.

I longed for the insouciant days of the early fall, when every moment was ripe with possibility, harbingers of our first faint stirrings of sexual awakening and budding emotional attachment.  

Before Eric and his unpredictable comings and goings had disturbed our nascent day-to-day rituals.  

Before the discordant tides of his illness had forged the tenuous bonds of the Wyczenski's family's latest rapprochement.  

Before we began to run, then walk, then crawl, in place.   

"Is your jalopy still in the shop?"

"It's a Jeep."  I close my eyes smiling at her term of endearment, in the past reserved exclusively for my grandfather's beloved roadster.  "Jalopy…" I whisper under my breath, rubbing my hand back through my hair.  It seemed unreasonably long these days.  I made a mental note to get a haircut.

"Oh, Jeep."  She returns the smile in a moment of shared remembrance, enunciating the words carefully, her voice dripping with characteristic good-natured chagrin.

Our eyes meet as she continues.  "You hardly touched your breakfast."

She didn't miss a trick.  I inhale nonchalantly, doing my best to deflect attention from what had always been one of her pet peeves.  

"Yeah, I don't like to eat much before a shift.  All that blood and guts, you know."  I adjust the cuffs of my sleeves and straighten my tie.

"Don't remind me."  She winces, eliciting a knowing smile from my lips.  From my earliest memory of her, she had always recoiled at the faintest sight of blood, probably the most compelling reason she found my chosen profession so distasteful.  "I had a feeling there was some agenda this morning."  

I look away, no longer able to meet her watchful eyes.  Suddenly, the square bulge pressing inside my left breast pocket felt a little heavier.

I had every intention of returning the ring when I had been ceremoniously deposited, courtesy of the Jeep dealership's curbside shuttle van service, on her doorstep late last evening.  After learning that Gamma had already retired to her room, I had slipped into the library, eager to place the now familiar blue box back in its former resting place.  

What I hadn't counted on was Alger's inauspicious arrival as I fumbled with the combination to the wall safe.  

Sheepishly, I had enlisted his assistance in opening the lock, though I could tell from the befuddled look on his face that he was surprised to find the ring still in the box.  That was when he nervously volunteered that Gamma had learned through the Lake Forest rumor mill that I had popped the question to my "nurse friend" behind the shuttered doors of the Cantare Ristorante and ordered him to check the library safe to confirm the ring's whereabouts.  He had pretended to be as surprised as she was to find the ring had gone missing.

And so, after a night of tossing and turning, this time in the familiar confines of my old room, I knew it was time to come clean.        

"I just wanted to check in, see how you were…and, I wanted to give this back to you, for the time being."  I reach into my breast pocket and place the box into her suddenly outstretched hand.

"She said no?"  She appeared oddly taken aback, unexpected disappointment creeping into her voice.  Perhaps I wasn't hearing right.

"I didn't ask."  I look down, straightening my jacket, shifting my weight against the slippery leather seat.

"Did something happen?"  She seemed to be trying hard to make sense of it all.

"Nah, it just felt kinda rushed."  My eyes meet hers, willing them to believe me.

"What did she do?"

"Nothing."  I shake my head convincingly.  "Doesn't even know.  I don't think she knows."  Once again, I shift uncomfortably in my seat.  "Maybe she knows, I don't know."  I fidget with my tie.

"I'm sorry, John."  She pats my thigh gently, letting her hand linger there for a moment.

"I thought you'd be relieved."  I fold my hands ceremoniously and smile smugly.

"That you're unhappy?"

"I got the impression that you never really…cared for her."  There, I'd bared my soul, laying every last one of its cards on the invisible table between us.

She emits a soft sigh, a wistful look creasing her forehead.  "I've spent so many years trying to get you to do what I think is best for you."  I nod grudgingly, bracing myself for a much-deserved "I told you so" lecture.  "Your past, having me badger you about your choices."

And then she does what I once would have thought unthinkable.  She hands the ring back to me.  "This is yours.  Give it, or don't, to whomever you choose."  She gently places the box in the palm of my hand.  

I stare down at it for a moment before springing open the lid and turning it up to meet her gaze, the luminescent hues of the center cut diamond casting a brilliant glow as it leapfrogs against the Towne Car's rain-streaked windows.

"It is a beauty, isn't it?" I ask softly.

She touches my shoulder.  "He wanted you to have it.  To give to your intended bride."  Her eyes look past me and out into the downtown streets as we draw closer to my intended destination.  "He used to mention her sometimes.  She must have made quite an impression on him that night at the history museum.  He said she reminded him of Cinderella.  You know how he always had a thing for the underdog."  

I knew.

"How 'bout those Bears?" I squint, my voice barely audible, recalling one of his oft-repeated phrases.

A faint smile creases the corners of her mouth as she straightens herself up in her seat and clasps my hand as firmly as she can.  

"All your life, every step of the way, every part of your journey, every fork in the road, you've chosen the road less traveled by…much to my frustration."

She pauses, the corners of her mouth straining as she struggles to find just the right words.  "Now I know why these past few months have been among the happiest I've ever seen you.  And I saw the way she looked at you that night at the symphony when she thought you weren't looking.  I know.  I've seen it before.  It was the same way I looked at your grandfather.  I felt like I was looking in a mirror."  Her grip tightened in my hand. "Whatever it is, you'll figure it out.  Both of you.  You've come too far in your journey to choose a different path."  

I feel a moist pinprick at the corners of my eyes as the driver pulls into the ambulance bay.  I unbuckle my seat belt and place the box back in my pocket.  Leaning over, I touch her cheek, and turn her head toward mine before planting a gentle kiss on her forehead.  I linger there briefly, drinking in the subtle whiff of her perfume, trying desperately to memorize this moment.

"I love you, Gamma," I whisper before climbing out of the car.

How well she finally knew me.  

I square my shoulders and walk through the sliding glass doors, more determined than ever to find a way to make things right.

* * * * *

_Maybe I was wrong___

Maybe I was blind and could not see 

_Maybe you were never the one___

_Maybe you were not the one for me___

_Maybe___

* * * * *

I push open the door to the lounge, scrunching my shoulders against the back of my stethoscope, struggling unsuccessfully to work the kinks out of my back.

Susan leans into her locker, extracting an array of personal items and quickly dumping them into a red canvas overnight bag.

I clear my throat, announcing my entrance.  "Blowing this popsicle stand, are we?"

She stands up, momentarily startled.  "Hey.  I didn't hear you come in."  She zips the suitcase and adjusts the velcro-handled ties, then drops it onto the linoleum with a weary thud.  

"Chen and I are headed out to Vegas for a little quickie.   You know, a little roll of the dice, an all-night buffet, a glimpse of Wayne Newton.  What more could two single gals ask for?"

I suppress a snicker, twirling the combination to my locker, all the while admiring her outfit.  Abby wasn't the only one taking great pains with her appearance these days.

"Nice 'do."

She pats her hair and waves open her lab coat revealing a sleeveless black shirt.  "This way, we can go straight to the casino."

She steps forward and leans against the back of Abby's locker.  "So where's she been hiding the Rock of Gibraltar?" 

I knew I had been avoiding her for a reason.  

"She," I enunciate dramatically, "isn't hiding it anywhere because…" I reach up into the top shelf of my locker and cup the blue box into the palm of my hand, then spring the lid open with a ritualistic flourish.  "I still have it."

Susan looks at me incredulously as she stares down at the ring.

"Carter…"

"Go ahead, try it on."  I pan it from side to side.  "You know you want to."

"She said no?"

"Still haven't asked her…" Though I try hard to fill my voice with cryptic cheerfulness, the notes fall short.  I lean my head back against the locker door and sigh deeply.

"More misdirection?"

"No…" I transfer the ring back to my jacket pocket.  "Yeah, I guess."  I shrug my shoulders dejectedly.  "I was all set.  I bought out that Italian restaurant in the Seneca Hotel.  I had my speech all rehearsed about how despite all the baggage we both bring to the table, I can't live another moment without her."  

I bring my hand to my head, massaging my temples.  "Unfortunately, I spent the better part of that afternoon stuck in traffic with Maggie trying to get her to the bus station, and she said some things that spooked me…took me out of my game plan."

"Like what?"

"I don't want to get into it now."  I wave my hand dismissively.  "Let's just say that by the time I got to the restaurant, I was confused.  Something didn't feel right.  I'm not exactly sure what it was.  But the moment was lost."

"But not forever…"

"No."  I squeeze my eyes shut tightly.  "I don't know."

"Do you think she knows?"

I smile ruefully thinking back to the not-so-subtle changes she had revealed throughout the course of that day.  "Oh, trust me, she knows."  After hanging up my stethoscope, I don my overcoat.  "Listen, I have to go. I have to pick the Jeep up at the dealership before it closes."  With a flourish, I snap my locker shut and sling my satchel bag up on my shoulder.   "Yeah, I know.  Something else that isn't working."

She lays a gentle hand on my arm.  "Don't worry, Carter.  You'll both figure it out."

"Funny.  That's exactly what Gamma said."  Her look of wide-eyed wonder was priceless to behold.  I wink, jabbing her playfully on the shoulder.  "Stay away from those Elvis wedding chapels, you hear?"

I exit the lounge and stride purposefully into the dusky evening.  At least it had stopped raining.

I arrive at the Jeep Dealership near Northwestern after a lumbering trip on the El during the height of rush hour where every passenger it seemed was Irish for the day.  Although the service department had called and informed Frank that the brake pads had been installed, I was told there apparently had been some mix-up with another vehicle.  An apologetic clerk hands me a coupon for a free latte and directs me to a "Customer Appreciation Room, " a state-of-the-art bastion of consumer friendliness as evidenced by a high-end snack bar, wide-screened TV and semi-circle of leather wing back chairs.  I felt as though I were back a the Union League Club.

I sit down at a bistro table after exchanging my coupon for bottled water.  I lean my head back against the wall, replaying the day's events in my mind.

_I don't know if people ever really change.___

Well, she certainly had come to work today whistling a different tune.

A thousand questions snake through my brain, like some imaginary mental conga line.

Instinctively, my face muscles morph back to mimic my look of stunned surprise as I stood outside the drug lock-up, staring into the wire mesh window that divided us as she nonchalantly scratched the back of her neck.  How many times had I chided her over her short-lived vows to give up smoking?  Had she unknowingly wanted me to see the patch?  Because she certainly hadn't volunteered the information.  And God knows I hadn't gotten close enough to her in the past few days to discover it on my own.  

And what about the enigmatic way she had rebuffed my dinner invitation forcing me into a game of twenty questions to wheedle out her plans for the evening?   When was the last time she had been to an AA meeting anyway?  She had never even mentioned that her sponsor still lived in Chicago.  Of course, with the typical walking-on-eggs aplomb I used to dance around her issues, I had never dared ask.

How could I ever hope of making things right -- which could now only be defined as throwing the ring a coming-out party -- if she kept leveling the playing field?

What had prompted her sudden urge to change especially in light of her fateful protests to the contrary the night at the restaurant?

The fact that she had woken up four days ago and stared down at her naked ring finger?  And wondered where the wheels had fallen off the wagon?

Or was my non-proposal simply the spark that had forced her to take a long hard look in the mirror, to face up to herself and the private stocktaking she knew was in store if she could ever dream of being whole again?

Who was she doing it for, really?

Herself?

Or me?

Through the dense fog of my bewilderment, I hear my name called over the intercom announcing that my car was ready for pick-up.

There were a half a dozen equally compelling excuses I could tick off if asked to recite on cue why the ring had remained in my pocket.  

Fear of rejection, fear that she didn't love me enough, fear she wasn't ready or in the same place as me, just to name a few.  

But none of these reasons matter as much as hearing her tell me why **she** thought I hadn't proposed.

I was sure her answer would speak volumes about where we were.  And where we were going.

Suddenly, it was all I needed to know.

* * * * * 

_Here I go posing a question___

_Not sure of what I'll hear___

_Here I go refusing to let you answer___

_Until I make myself so very clear___

_We can take what was wrong___

_We can end these words in a love song___

* * * * *

I stand next to a fluorescent billboard under the El overpass, my eyes timed to catch a glimpse of her as she makes her way through the soggy streets at the end of her shift.

My heart quickens at the sight of her resolute gait and the trademark pensiveness etched across her face.

"Hey.  What time's your thing?"

She blanches at the sound of my voice, stops and pivots, then steps back, her eyes masking stunned surprise.

"Uhh, she's probably waiting for me right now.  Did you get your car fixed?"

We begin walking in lockstep together toward an unknown destination.

"Yeah.  One of these days I'm gonna get one that works."  I shoot her a look of exasperated resignation, eliciting a laugh as she tucks her hair behind her ears.  She looks especially lovely in the soft waft of light emanating from an adjacent street lamp.

We cross the intersection, both stopping just past the curb.  I cut right to the chase.

"So…you know, right?"  I spread my arms open for added emphasis.

"Know what?"  If she knew where I was going with this, she wasn't letting on.

"That night at the restaurant.  I had a ring."  I nod emphatically, sure that she'll finally come clean.  "You knew that, right?"  I was Perry Mason asking the mother of leading questions.

She stares down at her feet, unable to meet my penetrating gaze.  "I figured if you wanted to talk about it, you would have."  Her voice sounds poised for impending doom.

It looked like if I were going to extract a confession from her, I'd have to lay all my cards on the table.

"I didn't go through with it, because in that moment, it just felt…it didn't feel right."  I shake my head.  "And I don't know why.  And I wish I did know why, but, I think the fact that I didn't do it means that maybe there's something there that isn't working…"

Something else besides my Jeep.

She looks up at me with placid resignation.  Her voice is quietly reassuring, almost apologetic.  "I get it.  It's okay."  Then opening her eyes wide as though the floodgates might open, she shoots me one last glance.  "I gotta go." 

Inwardly, I cringe at the way her skewed rationale has spun my question.    Instead of trying to help me figure out how we might get back on track, she assumes that the gig is up.  How typical of her.  How had we veered so wildly off-course?  

I chase her across the street, trying desperately to match her short, determined strides.

"You get it?  Well, that's good, maybe you could explain it to me, because I don't get it.  I know that I show up for work…"  I place myself squarely in her path.  "…And you act like a completely changed person.  And I think that's great, if that's real.  The patch, the sponsor…"

She looks up at me.  "Real?"  As usual, she's a little slow on the uptake.

"For real, for you.  Or is this something that's gonna get thrown out the window the next time something bad happens…"

"What?"  She brushes her hair back and sneers at me, her eyes cast downward, her voice dripping with disdain.

I continue my steady barrage.  "Because if you're trying to prove something to me, like some kind of quick fix…"

"I didn't do it for you!  I woke up sick of myself, okay, and if you're sick of me, and just all of it, I don't blame you…"  She closes her eyes tightly.

Her words are like an arrow through the heart.  How could my displays of affection have missed their mark so completely?   "I'm not sick of you.  How do you hear that?"  I squint at her and wave my hand, my body abruptly contorting into a tightly wound rubber band ball of blaze and fury.

"Because all I ever do is disappoint you."  Her voice disintegrates into a low plaintive wail.    "I feel like all I'm ever going to do is disappoint you.  I've said this before, I don't know why you're surprised to hear this."

"Stop!  Stop!"  I smack myself in the head, snatching a clump of hair in frustration.  "Stop with this whole fatalistic, black cloud, nothing good is ever gonna happen routine."

"Problem is, it's not a routine."  She tries to bolt past me.  

I grab her arms, pinning them roughly in place, bending to gauge the reaction written across her face.  "Hey!  "What do I have to say?  What do I have to do to get through to you?"

She looks up, down, all around, anywhere to avoid returning my gaze.  Slowly, I straighten up and relax my grip.  If anyone was going to leave, it was going to be me.  Though part of me, the part dug deep way beyond my heels, hoped against hope she'd follow suit.

But as I slink away from her, there are no footsteps behind me, just the sounds of sooty damp silence.

I climb into the Jeep and slam the door shut, adrenalin coursing through my veins.  I stare blankly out the window as I watch her draw her body up into her shoulders and cross the street, her head bent down to avoid being battered by the blowing wind.  

I slam the steering wheel before gripping it tightly, the sting gushing through my black-gloved hand.  Letting my head fall back against the seat, I recall the last time I had walked away from her_.   ___

It's just – how far are we going to go if we keep hiding from each other? 

Somewhere in the far off distance, an imaginary clock signals the arrival of 2400 hours, an infinitesimal sound I knew was intended only for me.  

I waggle my thumbs on the steering wheel and peer through the windshield at the throngs of people crossing in front of me, searching intently for her familiar silhouette.

Looks like if I wanted answers to our questions, I would need to be the one doing the asking.

Again.

I turn on the ignition and roll into the night, narrowing the short distance between us.

She stops dead in her tracks even before I can shift into park.  

She knows it's me.

I climb out of the Jeep and step onto the curb.

She twirls around ever so slightly, her head tucked under her chin as she spreads her broken wings in a slow-footed pirouette.

_I won't hide anymore.___

In nakedness, her heart had found rest.

And I knew.

I just knew.

She had done it for herself.

With a strength she barely knew she possessed, she had reached deep, deep down to uncover a new found willingness to take a chance on herself, even if it meant that it would never change anything between us.

Suddenly, all I wanted was for her to know that I knew.

But this time it had to be on my terms.  

Now, more than ever, I needed her to be the one to make the next move, to come further than halfway, to overcome her inhibitions against showing her feelings, to express something of what she was feeling about herself, about me, about us.  

To give us some hope.

Mirroring her outstretched gesture, I shake my head and grind my feet to a halt, ardently willing her to come the rest of the way to meet me.

 _I didn't mean to leave like that.  It just – seemed kind of complicated and I wanted to give it time to figure out where we were.___

With disbelieving eyes, I watch her take several confident steps toward me.  I hedge forward slightly, closing the gap between us, and reach down to wrap a hand around hers.  She draws herself closer still, leaning her body into my chest, bowing her forehead into my shoulder.  I press my lips against her hair and close my eyes, wanting nothing more than to savor the moment.

Suddenly, I feel a set of diminutive arms, tentatively at first, and finally with breathtaking ferocity, reach up to envelope me, pulling me out of my long dark abyss.  

At long last surrounding me with her love.  

And telling me everything I needed to know.

_Here we are._

* * * * * 

_Maybe if we try___

_Maybe we can start again when we've already said good-bye___

_Maybe we can still be what we've always dreamed we could be___

_And I know I was wrong to let you go___

_But I'm still holding on to let you know___

* * * * *

I sit in a booth in a coffee shop in her neighborhood munching on a turkey club sandwich.  I had thought about heading straight to her apartment after she had reluctantly disentangled herself from my embrace and gone to meet her AA sponsor, until I realized, for the first time in longer than I could remember, that I was completely and utterly famished.  

I reach into my satchel bag and pull out the familiar spiral notebook, just beginning to show the telltale signs of its world-weary travels.  I turn to the entry I had penned the previous evening in the middle of my restless slumber at Gamma's.  

Pivotal Moment #3:  Our "charity date" at the natural history museum  

_March 16, 2003_

_Abby –_

_For me, it will always be a night of firsts._

_The first time I saw you in a dress, and a most cleverly unconventional one to boot._

_The first time I saw the inside of your apartment._

_The first time I stole a glimpse of you in your black bra and panties through your bedroom door, though I had undressed you with my eyes a hundred times before._

_The first, and, regrettably only time you met my grandfather._

_The first time we danced._

_The first time I conspired to let the air out of someone's tires._

_The first time I seriously thought about kissing you._

_The first time I stayed up the whole night afterwards thinking about you, trying hard not to picture you in the arms of another man._

_The first time I saw you in a new and different light._

_I know there were things about our "first date" that were less than perfect.  _

_The uncomfortable silence in the limousine that followed your wistful lament about how  Luka didn't ever get  jealous of your dalliances with other men.  I can still hear the hollowness in your voice and can't help but remember suppressing an irresistible urge to take you in my arms and melt all your self-doubts away._

_And then, of course, there was our unexpected run-in with Richard and Alexis. _

_ He was different than I imagined him to be, more polished and suave, though with a harder edge underneath.  To be honest, I had a hard time picturing you happy with him, though we both know what problems and flaws can get swept under the rug in the heady, early days of a relationship.  In hindsight, I can see how the demons you fought during your time together and the eventual crumbling of your union has jaded your views of marriage – and how differently you and I probably view it as a destination, if only because you've been through it before and I haven't.  I can only hope that in time you'll open your heart to the idea again, guided by the not-so-naïve notion that the right partner can change everything._

_Yet, when all is said and done, I'll always come back to the image of myself standing in your doorway, bouquet of fresh flowers in hand, poised to knock, feeling as though I were on the verge of something wonderful._

_I had picked up the flowers on my way home from work, having caught a glimpse of them as I passed a storefront kiosk near the el station.  For some reason, they reminded me of you._

_Which is why I was so floored to discover that you preferred your flowers dead._

_Because, in the analogy of the mind's eye, I had never imagined you as anything other than a budding flower teetering on the verge of full bloom._

_If you've been keeping up with copy of "The Little Prince" that I left for you, I'm sure you already know that._

**_The little prince went away, to look again at the roses._**

****

**_"You are not at all like my rose," he said.  "As yet you are nothing.  No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one.  You are like my fox when I first knew him.  He was a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes.  But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world."_**

****

**_And the roses were very much embarrassed._**

****

**_"You are beautiful, but you are empty," he went on.  "One could not die for you.  To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you – the rose that belongs to me.  But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses:  because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing.  Because she is my rose."_**

****

**_And he went back to meet the fox._**

****

**_"Goodbye," he said._**

****

**_"Goodbye," said the fox.  "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret:  It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye._**

****

**_"What is essential is invisible to the eye," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember._**

****

**_"It is the time that you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important."_**

****

**_"It is the time I have wasted for my rose  -- " said the little prince, so that he would be sure to remember._**

****

**_"Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox.  "But you must not forget it.  You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.  You are responsible for your rose…"_**

****

**_"I am responsible for my rose," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.  _**

Abby, I hope that every time you read about the little prince's rose, it will feel like looking into a mirror. And you'll see the beautiful flower who has tamed me. My wild blooming rose.   

_Yours, _

_John_

Satisfied, I close the book, reach into my pocket and toss some bills on the table.  I glance at my watch, staring down at the hands as they creep up on ten-thirty.  She hadn't known how long she'd be.

After a short walk in the crisp night air, I approach her doorway tentatively, unsure whether to knock or pull out my key.  I opt for the latter, thinking, despite the lateness of the hour, that I may have beaten her home.  If that were the case, I'd reward myself with a long shower, even though tonight I'd prefer not to do it alone.

Turning the knob, I'm surprised when the door jerks against the gold-plated chain.

"Abby…" My voice filters through the crack, my eyes squinting to get a glimpse of how I'd find her.

I hear the padding of bare feet stumbling against the wood floor.

"Abby, it's me…"

The door slides gently toward me as her hand moves up to unlatch the chain.  The hinges groan as the door swings open and thuds against the small table behind it.

She looks exactly as she did when she reluctantly pulled herself away from me just hours earlier.  Yet something's different, an inimitable softness planed across her face.  I smile at her in quiet wonder.

"You locked me out."  There was a lightness in my voice I hadn't heard in what seemed like ages.

She rolls her eyes in response.  "Hello to you, too."

The living room is swathed in soft light from the glow of two candles that burn at either end of the coffee table.  The Burberry blanket, my Christmas gift to her, lies balled up at the edge of the couch.  The sounds of a throaty contralto I had never heard before gently reverberate from the CD speakers.  Obviously she had been home for a while.

I step into the room, closing the door behind me, unable to take my eyes off of her, wanting nothing more to tangibly test the hypothesis, with my hands, my lips and parts unmentioned, that we had indeed entered a new dimension.

"Hi."  
  


She closes her eyes and draws a deep breath, perhaps reading my thoughts.

"I didn't think you'd be coming tonight."  Her eyes grow sheepish once she dares to open them.

I look back at her, my heart exploding into a thousand silver shards.

"I'm sorry."

She raises her eyebrows, tilting her head to the side.  "For what?"

"For…"  I shake my head and shrug.

We both know for what.

And the feeling is mutual.

She nods.  "Me too." 

Not wanting to break the trance, but in the interest of inching closer to the business at hand, I turn around, drop my bag on the floor and proceed to hang my coat in the closet.  

My hand is on her cheek moments later as I rub my thumb lightly across her flesh.  

But something's not right.

There's an unmistakable sadness in her eyes, that wasn't there two minutes ago.

"What's wrong?"

"I didn't think you'd be coming home tonight."

I pull her close to me, trying to reconstruct the moment on the sidewalk.  She takes her cue, wrapping her arms around my torso and burying her head in my chest, kissing it lightly.

I inhale deeply into her upper body, shifting my weight to balls of my feet.  She pulls away and looks up at me expectantly.

For some reason, I need to hear her say what my heart now knows to be true.

"Look, I…"  My ears are suddenly diverted to the sound emanating from the CD player.

_He wants to marry me, carry me far away___

He wants to love me for life 

I shake my head, momentarily spooked by the mystical convergence of ideal and reality.

"What is it?"  Her hand roams my back, her fingers tracing a line up and down my spine.

I find my voice again.  "I don't want you…to change."

She raises an eyebrow.  "You don't?"

"No.  Yes…" I sigh.  "What I meant to say was…I don't want you to change, just for me."

My pronouncement is met with stony silence as she untangles herself from my grasp and turns her back toward me.

"I told you I wasn't."

"Yeah, you did.  And I…I just wanted to make sure you're doing it for the right reasons, and not because I didn't propose."

She tips her head over her shoulder and looks at me pointedly.  "What are the right reasons?"

I return her gaze with equal intensity before closing the gap between us, placing my arms on her shoulders and squeezing them lightly.

"For you."

"For me?"  Her tone is mocking.

"Yes."

She rolls her eyes.  "I told you…"

"I know what you told me."

"Then why…" She turns around to face me as a thought clicks into place.

"…You don't believe me."

"Abby."  I sigh.

She shakes her head.  "No.  Don't.  Don't try and make up for it…I told you.  I said I get it.  So just…"

She pulls away from me, more roughly this time, and heads for the couch.  She picks up the blanket, neatly arranging it next to her before sitting down.

"Just what?"  I ask from behind her.

"I don't know, Carter.  Just…"

Suddenly she tosses her hands in resignation.  "I can't do this."

"Abby…"

She covers her face with the back her hand.  "I told myself I wasn't going to do this…"

Undaunted by her outburst, I sit down beside her.  "Do what?"

She takes a deep breath, gazing down at her hands in her lap.

"I really thought you were ready to end it tonight."

"End what?"

"Us.  I thought it was over."

"Oh."

"And even though…Even though I knew it would hurt…Even though I knew it would probably kill me to lose you…I convinced myself I deserved it."

"Abby…"

She shakes her head, trying hard to manage a self-deprecating laugh through salty tears before continuing.  

"I made myself a promise…That no matter what happened…I wouldn't continue to be like this…I would change.  Because I couldn't keep living like this.  I couldn't keep hating myself."

"So sure…Maybe I did it for you.  Maybe this has something to do with what you said to me in the restaurant.  All I know is…That night you were going to propose to me…Despite my best efforts to convince myself otherwise…It was all I had ever really wanted…and all I can think about since then is…Why you didn't."

"I did it for you, but I did it for me, too.  So that even if…Even if the end came, I'd have something to keep me going."

She looks over at me timidly, biting her lip.  "Pretty selfish, huh?"

As my mind and heart work overtime to process her testimony, I can think of only one thing.

She had affirmed every thought that had raced through my head as I stood on the sidewalk waiting for her to walk toward me.  

Only this time with words instead of her naked heart.

Slowly, my lips move in to silence our doubts.

One long slow kiss for her.

And one for me.

"Do you know how much I love you?"  I cup her chin tenderly.

She smiles demurely, licking her lips.  "That's something else I'm working on."

"Mmhmmm…Maybe we can work on that together."

She laughs, the moment suddenly transcended by an incredible sweetness.  "I was hoping you'd offer."

I sit up, pulling away from her briefly while I shift over to the other end of the couch.

"Come here." 

She obliges eagerly, fitting her body neatly against me, draping an arm across my chest and leaning her head against my shoulder.  I cover us both with the blanket, my fingers lingering on her hair.

"So when did you get this CD?"

"Mmmm…I found it a couple of weeks ago."

"Not your usual noise."

"I don't know…I guess I was just…drawn to it."

I kiss the top of her head and tighten my grip around her.

"Hey." She breaks the silence.

"Yeah?"

"Guess what we're doing?"

I pause briefly.  "What are we doing?"

She smiles looking up into my eyes.

"We're growing…We're changing."

So we were.

Who knew?

* * * * *

_Maybe I was wrong___

_Maybe I was blind and could not see_

_Oh, but baby I'll be strong___

_And I'll sacrifice the very breath I breathe___

_If I can only hear you say to me___

_When I ask you if you think you still love me___

_Maybe___


	11. Circling the Bases

**Title:  Circling the Bases**

Description:  Post-ep for "Finders Keepers."  Eleventh chapter in "The Long Way," a series of Season 9 post-eps beginning with "First Snowfall."  Carter's POV.

Author:  KenzieGal (a/k/a It's Always Something)

Disclaimer:  Carter and Abby do not belong to me, they are the property of the wise and wealthy minds of TPTB at Warner Brothers.  No copyright infringement intended.

Spoilers:  Everything during Season 9 up to and including "Finders Keepers.

Summary:  Carter and Abby spend a chilly evening at Wrigley Field but more than make up for it afterwards.

Warning:  Contains sexual innuendo not for the faint of heart.  Especially if you're not a carby.

Notes:  This is the latest in a series of crossover post-eps with Sunni's (a/k/a Lanie) Abby-centric "Reflections" series, the one that raised the bar for an entire genre that followed, which will continue through the remaining four episodes of Season 9.  Look for her to pick up the story thread in "Stealing Home," her current post-ep (Chapter 16) to "Finders Keepers."  As mentioned in prior chapters, while the two post-eps are meant to be read in tandem and share a common thread, our work remains faithful to Abby (hers) and Carter's (mine) POVs. Her chapters won't exactly parallel mine and vice versa.

Sorry to disappoint the music aficionados, but no "song of the post ep" this time around.  Instead, for a change of pace, I opted to split Carter's journal entry up between the two scenes.  

The excerpt from Carter's journal entry is from _Gift From the Sea_ by Anne Morrow Lindbergh.  Every once in a while, a book comes along that changes our lives forever.  In my case, this is one of those stories.  Since as far back as I can remember (Nixon may have been president), it has sustained me through love, loss and all the meridian moments in between.

In the interest of brevity, I'll dispense with the shout-outs and flowery gratitude.  Suffice it to say that I remain deeply indebted to all those I've named in previous chapters.  By now, you know who you are…and how grateful I am.

As always, reviews (even of the monosyllabic variety) are welcomed and appreciated.

* * * * *

Pivotal Moment #4:  Our Road Trip to Oklahoma Abby – 

_Whoever said that life is all about the journey, not the destination, must have been a stowaway in the trunk of our blue-green Chrysler Sebring as we traveled the back roads of Oklahoma._

_I mean it seemed like in the space of a few hours I went from a leisurely afternoon run with Rena and Norman on my day off, to tooling the lonesome highways of America's heartland with you in a rented convertible._

_I can still remember the disappointment in your voice as you recounted Luka's attempt to deal with Maggie's latest bender, which you dismissed as nothing more than a misguided offer to "decide for you."_

_I've always wondered how you initially felt about my own unsolicited proposition since I pretty much "decided for you" too._

_Unlike Luka, though, I knew exactly what you wanted._

_If not my company, per se, then someone to lighten your load as you retraced your steps on what had become a heartbreakingly familiar pilgrimage._

_Someone who didn't judge you or try to talk you out of what you thought was the right thing to do._

_Staring down into your frightened, lonely eyes while I waited on hold with my erstwhile travel agent, even then, I knew you went as much for yourself as you did for Maggie._

_Part of me is still haunted by the images of the mother-daughter role reversal I watched unfold as unobtrusively as I could, trying my best to find the elusive balance between being solicitous and overbearing._

_Another part of me felt privileged that you were secure enough in our friendship to let me share the experience with you.  _

_As though somehow my being there did matter after all._

_Despite the serious undertones of our journey, the trip was not without its lighthearted moments._

_There we were, sailing along the open highway, the radio blaring, hair blowing in the wind; both stealing glances when we thought the other wasn't looking._

_After all it was springtime, the stuff every cliché is made of.  _

_When hope springs eternal_

_And a young man's fancy turns to…_

_Love._

_* * * * * _

I push open the door to the lounge, scrunching my shoulders against my stethoscope, struggling unsuccessfully to work the kinks out of my back.

She's seated at the table with her back toward me, shoulders slumped, soft tendrils of hair spilling out of her braid, thumbing through the yellow pages.

I clear my throat announcing my arrival.  "Letting our fingers do the walking, huh?"

She shifts her chair and turns around, momentarily startled, losing her place as she shoves the phone book aside, a furrowed crease penciled across her forehead.

"Hey."  Her voice is subdued.

"Your shift over?"  I attempt to override the flatness in her tone with forced cheerfulness, trying to make up for the indifference I had shown her the few times she had attempted to engage me in polite conversation earlier in the day.

"Yeah."  She begins to leaf through the yellow pages once again.  "I was just going to pick up some take-out sushi on my way home, but I can't seem to remember the name of that little place in my neighborhood…"

She looks up through tired eyes attempting to gauge my reaction.

"Sushi?"  My mind wanders back to the longest elevator ride in recent memory.  Abby, Luka and I standing choreographed in triangular formation like unwitting participants in some madcap French farce.  Luka had inquired whether we had been to the new sushi place that had just opened on Navy Pier. 

"You know, raw fish rolled into a pricey Asian delicacy?"

"Abby."  

She reaches for the phone.  "Should I be ordering for one or two?  Will you be gracing me with your presence this evening?"  Her voice is laced with sarcasm.

I inch closer to where she's sitting, kicking a chair out next to her before plunking my weary body into it.

"I'm afraid I have other plans." I gaze down at my sneakers.

Despite her best attempts to conceal her disappointment through a tight-lipped smile, her face muscles form a look of tired resignation when she thinks I'm not looking.  

"OK."  She lifts the receiver from the phone with one hand while the other holds her finger in place next to a number in the middle of the page.

I reach across and cover her hand with mine just as she's about to punch the first digit.

"Hey, hey.  With you."  I whisper contritely, punctuating the invitation by running a finger across her jaw line, something I haven't done in ages.  "If you'll have me."

A slight smile crinkles the corners of her mouth.  "Depends what you have in mind."

I open my lab coat, withdrawing two colorful rectangular tickets and brandish them in front of her.

"Cubs vs. Mets.  Field level seats.  Section 120, Row D, Seats 1 and 2.  Right behind home plate.

She shakes her head, mouthing small no's, rolling her eyes in mock indignation and thumbing toward the open window.  "Carter, have you been outside lately?  It's like 30 degrees out there."

I counter her resistance with boyish enthusiasm, something that has been in short supply of late.

"Might be a chance to see Sammy Sosa hit his 500th homerun," I say in the most charming singsong voice I can muster.

"You're crazy."

"I know.  You keep telling me that."  I shoot her a look of mild bemusement.

"It's just…this day…it kind of took the wind out of my sails.  And I'm exhausted…" her voice begs off, though I sense there's still some wiggle room left to sway her.

"Peanuts, pop corn, cracker jacks on me." 

She stares at me mutely before taking a half-hearted stab at a more credible excuse.

"I don't have anything warm to wear…"

"Ah, but there's where you're wrong."  I quickly saunter over to my locker, twirling the combination before opening the door with an exaggerated flourish.  I pull out a weathered canvas valise and begin an animated inventory, tossing an array of mismatched sweatshirts, windbreakers, fleeces, hats, socks and gloves onto the couch.

She seems momentarily touched by my Boy Scout-like advance work.

"So how long have you been planning this date?"  She cocks her eyebrows, taking several steps toward me.

"I don't know, the idea kind of popped into my head when I was sorting through my old baseball card collection at Gamma's."

"So that's where you've been hiding out on me."

"Yeah, she hasn't felt much like meeting me out lately…and I like to check up on her every few days…"

She stares up at me, seemingly lost in thought, as though she's trying hard to conjure up some elusive moment from our shared past.  Reaching up, she runs her fingers across my hairline, sending a jarring shiver down my spine.  "Nice haircut."

"Yeah, Alger's a man of many talents."

"You let Gamma's butler cut your hair?"

"I think he prefers the term domestic attaché.  Listen, if we're going to get there in time to see Sammy come up in the bottom of the first inning, we better get a move on…"

"I still haven't said I'd go with you."  Her lips curve slightly, teasing the corners of her mouth.

"Fine, I'll see if I can find any other takers," I hastily begin to throw the contents back into the bag.  

"Hey, I was only kidding.  It'll be fun."  She paws through the collection of items, haphazardly selecting a red hooded DePaul sweatshirt, wool socks, a white cable knit sweater and a Cubs baseball cap.  "Meet you in the ambulance bay in five?"  

I catch her arm, twirling her around as she turns to leave.

"Uh…there's one ground rule."  I rub my hand across my jaw line and look at her pointedly.  "No shoptalk tonight, OK?"  I wave my outstretched hand.  "Today…Romano…Susan's news…this place…all the stuff that's been going on the past few weeks…let's just stuff it in the bottom drawer tonight.  Along with all the other unmentionables."

Eyes bright as she returns my steady gaze, it's obvious she's caught my drift.

"Sure thing, slugger."  There's something achingly familiar about the lightness in her voice that makes me want to take her in my arms and head for home.  Before I could let go of that thought, she punches my arm and strides for the door.

I shake my head as she exits the lounge, wondering what the evening holds in store.

We take the red line to the Addison Street stop, heads down, hands thrust deep into our pockets as we walk the block to Wrigley Field in the raw night air.

We arrive in the bottom of the third inning, just as the Cubs are getting ready to take their turn at bat.  A gentlemanly usher escorts us to our seats and wipes them off with a crisp white towel, a throwback to a bygone era when boys of summer named Banks and Williams and Santo had owned the joint.  

Although the aged ballpark can hold nearly 40,000 fans when filled to capacity, it's painfully obvious that the chilly April weather had deterred all but a handful of Cubs diehards, colorfully attired to brave the elements.  Gazing at the tiers of empty seats, I estimate that there can't be more than 5,000 people in the stadium.

Thanks to the unsolicited, but friendly, recap from Nick, the burly seatmate to my right, we learn that the Cubs are ahead 1-0, courtesy of a stand-up double in the bottom of the second by Moises Alou, a fielder's choice on Hee Seop Choi's grounder to first and an RBI sacrifice fly deep to center field by Corey Patterson.  Kerry Wood, the Cub's best pitcher, has been masterful on the mound, having retired nine in a row after giving up an infield hit to the Mets' leadoff hitter, Roger Cedeno, to start the game.  Nick also volunteers that Sammy Sosa looked at a called strike three to end the first inning so he's still chasing the elusive number 500.    

I watch her out of the corner of my eye as she extracts a wad of bubble gum from the pocket of her jeans and pops it into her mouth.  The blond streaks of her ponytail tucked neatly through her baseball cap, she smiles at me tightly through clenched teeth.

"Here we are."  There's no mistaking the sarcasm in her tone as she rounds her shoulders up through her neck in a desperate attempt to keep them warm.

I reach over and pull her close, laying her head on my shoulder, inhaling a delicious waft of Bazooka.  "You're a good sport, you know that?"

The Cubs half of the third proceeds uneventfully as Al Leiter, the Mets' ace, retires the side in order.

I stand up and stretch my back.  "Think I'll head over to the snack bar – looks like management took pity on the roving vendors tonight and let us fans fend for ourselves.  What can I get you?"

"Uh…maybe just some coffee."

"That's it?"

"I'm not very hungry."

"C'mon, Abby, you gave up smoking less than two weeks ago.  You must be starving all the time.  I'd think you'd be dying to try new things now that everything you eat doesn't taste like nicotine."

"What, and give up this girlish figure?"  She gestures self-deprecatingly at her bulky attire.

"I can think of a few places you can stand to pack on a few pounds."  I hope she'll embrace the comment in the magnanimous spirit in which it's intended.

She lifts an eyebrow and cocks her head at me.  "Surely you jest."

I flash her a mischievous grin.  She cranes her neck to see what others in our section are noshing.  "OK, I'll have a hot dog, mustard and relish, some nachos with cheese.  And hot chocolate."  

By the time I return with our refreshments, the Cubs are batting in the bottom of the fourth, still leading 1-0.  I settle for a plain hot dog and an order of "freedom fries."  And a giant cup of java.  Considering the day I'd had, I fear anything more substantial would only have wreaked its own brand of gastric discourse.

We munch on our snacks silently as Leiter catches both Mark Grudzielanek and Alex Gonzalez swinging.  Suddenly, the crowd, singular dots scattered throughout the frosty stadium, rises to its feet as Sammy Sosa steps to the plate.

"C'mon Sammy, let one rip," she claps.  She removes her gloves, brings her fingers to her mouth and lets out a melodious whistle.  I stare at her in amused disbelief.  I never would have had her pegged as a baseball Annie.  Sensing my reaction, she rolls her eyes at me.  "At this point, I'll do anything to get warm."

Much to the crowd's chagrin, Sosa taps the ball weakly to first, ending the inning.  

We lower ourselves back into our seats.  "I didn't know you were such a baseball fan."

"I was the star shortstop of my Little League team in Minnesota, remember?"  I vaguely recall Maggie mentioning something to this effect when we had played in that charity baseball game a couple years ago.

"Right.  I forgot."

"When I was a little girl, it was an escape from reality.  My reality with Maggie after my father left.  It was something I could do to be just like all the other kids…well, boys mostly since not many girls played baseball back then."  There was a wistful glint in her eye.  "Some nights, before falling asleep, I'd listen to the Twins on the radio, and imagine myself escaping to far flung places.  Maybe as the Major League baseball's first female umpire or some network's first play-by-play announcer.  Or maybe just a baseball wife.  You know how little girls grow up idolizing pop icons?  Not me.  Instead of being married to John Travolta or Shaun Cassidy, my Barbie dolls were always married to baseball players.  Ken was usually Steve Garvey or Bucky Dent."         

I let out a low chuckle.  So the wheels were turning even back then.  "What, none of the Twins' hometown heroes catch your eye?"

"Did you ever get a good look at Harmon Kilebrew?"  She flashes me a wicked grin.

Sipping my coffee, I scan the field in search of a group of seats in back of the Cubs' dugout.  I turn her head in that direction.  "See those seats down over there.  That's the owners' box.  When Mr. Wrigley owned the Cubs, he'd always invite my grandfather – they were old tennis doubles partners – to join him on Opening Day.  And he'd always bring Bobby and I along…" My voice trailed off as my mind reached back for the memory of my brother and I squirming around in our seats on bright April afternoons, glove in hand, hoping to catch a foul ball.

She eyes me sympathetically and curls a gloved hand around mine.

"This is such a great old place." I squeeze her hand in silent gratitude.  "Only Fenway Park is older.  I remember coming with my grandfather to see the first game played under the lights in the pouring rain – 8/8/88 in case you're superstitious – and just feeling kind of sad.  Kind of like the end of an era."

"So did you ever get to meet the Double Mint twins?"  It had turned cold enough now for large puffs of smoke to billow out of our mouths when we spoke.

I laugh.  "No, but I played spin the bottle with one of Mr. Wrigley's granddaughters in prep school."

In the bottom of the sixth inning, with two outs and a runner on first, Alex Gonzalez, the Cubs power-hitting shortstop, cracks a split-fingered fastball over the right field fence for a two-run homer, stretching the Cubs lead to 3-0.  Once he had taken his customary curtain call, the remaining crowd once again rises to its feet as Sammy Sosa enters the batter's box.  

"Think third time's the charm?" She removes her gloves and brings her hands to her mouth and lets another one rip into the biting wind.

Sosa lines the first pitch into centerfield for a stand-up double as the crowd unleashes a collective groan before providing perfunctory applause.  Looks like tonight might not be the night after all.  After Leiter strikes out Moises Alou to end the inning, even more fans head for the exits.

"If two batters reach base safely before the eighth inning ends, he might get another shot," she opines with calculated authority.  

Suddenly, a group of middle-aged men, beers in hand, stagger into the row in front of us whose original ticket holders had packed up and left the previous inning.  It's obvious that none of them are feeling any pain.  The worst offender deposits himself directly in front of Abby, but not before his red-rimmed eyes offer her a creepy once-over and a lusty wink.

I open my mouth to say something, but she leans over and grabs my arm, whispering into my shoulder with a conspiratorial smile, "Don't.  They're harmless."

I cast her a bewildered look, wondering if she doesn't secretly wish she could knock back a few rounds with them.

The guy in front of me, a strapping red head in a big blue parka and Black Hawks cap, undoubtedly a concession to weather more fitting for hockey than baseball, pulls a silver flask from his jacket and takes a long, slow swig before passing it to Abby's admirer.  Though he probably has at least fifteen years on him, he's a dead ringer for Susan's shotgun husband.  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her drink in the ritual.

"So what did you think of Chuck?"  We're both thinking the same thing.  "Or is that topic still off limits?"

I rub my gloved hands together for added warmth.  At least I could still feel my fingers.  "He seemed nice enough…not exactly Susan's type…"

"And that would be…" I sense that she's been lying in wait for our conversation to turn to this topic, having already scripted her end of the dialogue.

"I don't know, certainly not your average lug."

She shoots me a nasty look.

"What?  You're telling me it's fine for a doctor to be married to a lowly nurse as long as he's the one wearing the pants in the family…but as soon as the roles are reversed…"

"Abby, get off your soapbox…"  My patience for the conversation, not to mention our new neighbors, is wearing thin.

"No, it irritates me the hell out of me that you would…"

I cut her off before she can finish.  "It's not him that's the problem.  Mostly, I'm just worried about Susan.  And the idea that she'd just go traipsing off to Las Vegas with Chen and get married instead of getting takeout with the first guy who gave her the once over on the plane…even if it was a meaningless spur of the moment thing…"

"Carter, where's your sense of romance?"

"Sorry.  I must have left it up on the roof at County."  I spit the words out as soon as they pop into my mind, surprising myself with the tinge of bitterness that creeps into my voice.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Suddenly, the crowd stands up as the Cubs take the field for the start of the eighth inning.  An unfamiliar number is trotting out to right field.  Before the public address announcer can intone, "Now playing right field, replacing Sammy Sosa…" a chorus of boos fills the frosty night sky.  The guys in front of us, in addition to hurling obscenities, toss their not-quite-empty paper beer cups into the section below us.

"Guess number 500 deserves a moment in the sun."  I begin to gather up our belongings.

"Win some, lose some."  Her double entendre isn't lost on me.

"Ready?"  I hand her the duffel bag.

"Yeah."

Our feet numb against the pavement, we stumble down the ramp and toward the exit, descending into the dark canyons of the old fabled stadium, still mired in the last gasps of winter.

* * * * *

Something inside of me changed forever during the hours we spent bringing Maggie back to Chicago.

_And I knew once we returned, there would never be any going back._

_It's hard to put a finger precisely on when it happened._

_Maybe when it was when I heard the sad recounting of your ill-fated trip to Disneyland._

_Or when we awkwardly batted around the details of my final phone conversation with Rena, wondering if you knew just how closely her words had struck to home._

_Or as we casually sipped our Slurpies outside the gas station restroom, feeling the first faint tugs of something bigger than both of us, suspended somewhere between the bonds of friendship and whatever comes next._

_Or maybe it was when we pulled up in front of your apartment building, giddy from talk of hairstyle choices gone bad and you thanked me with a glimmer in your eye, one that gave me reason to hope._

_That someday you could feel the same way about me._

_Never in my wildest imagination did I dare dream that I could ever turn your head around._

_Like you'd turned mine._

_But I did._

_And I have._

_As they say, the rest is history._

_Now the question is, are we?_

_Abby, what's happened to us lately?_

_When did we fall back into this push me-pull me two-step shuffle?_

_What happened to stolen moments lingering over coffee at Doc Maggo's, knowing looks across a crowded room, walks by the river and all-nighters filled with scintillating conversation and gentle lovemaking?_

_When every single day was ripe with possibilities?_

_I feel our connection slowly slipping away, straining under the weight of our ever-present insecurities and enduring uncertainties._

_And it scares the hell out of me._

_* * * * *_

She unlocks the door to her apartment, turning the knob and shifting her weight against it slightly as it opens with a long, languid creak.  She immediately bolts for the bedroom.  I pause for a moment to remove my jacket and sweatshirt before trailing after her.  Christ, if this was her tired way of setting up another round of "slam, bam, thank you ma'am," I wondered why she had used all her feminine wiles to convince me to stay.  

By the time I reach the doorframe, she's already stripped herself of the first couple of layers that had protected her from the frigid night air, discarding them, as is her custom, in a careless heap on the floor.

Barefoot, jeans unzipped, her upper body clad in a sleeveless white t-shirt, she stands before me, then backs up and points her thumb toward the bathroom.

"I'm going to jump in the shower.  Do you want anything?"

I want…

No, I need…

Too much.

More of her than she'll ever let me have.

For the first time, I don't know what to do with the layers of overwhelming fear and despair that engulf me, suspended between us like scaffolding.  All I can think of is that in one night I could lose everything I've tried so hard to hold onto for the past three years.

As she inches toward the bathroom, I move toward her in one fell swoop, grabbing her shoulders and spinning her around, pinning her against the wall and burying my face in the curve of her neck.  I run my tongue along her collarbone, lips ambling across her cheek, teeth scraping against her jaw line before my mouth finds hers, hot and hard, in a torrid kiss that arouses and appeases me at the same time. 

She places her hands on my biceps and pushes me away, gazing up at me through wide, stunned eyes.

"Jesus, Carter, I know it's been awhile…"

I look down at her, eyes on fire, my heart pounding as much from panic as desire, knowing full well that my opening salvo was something not yet embedded in our standard lexicon of lovemaking rituals.

Maybe that's why I did it.

To shake us out of the doldrums we had unwittingly fallen into.

"Tell me to stop…and I will."

She pauses for a moment, then shoots me a look of coy uncertainty, squinting in the twinkling darkness, illuminated only by the soft bedside lamp and the incandescent look in her eyes, sparkling brown puddles that could melt butter.

"I was just surprised, that's all.  Usually you're a little more gentle…"

Words I once would have thought alien, juxtaposed together in the pall that hangs between us, spring from my lips, seemingly out of nowhere.  

"Maybe I don't want to be gentle tonight."

She licks her lips, and opens her mouth, forming a small 'o,' before thinking better of it and pressing them together again.  Instead, she nods her head in a move that conveys absolute certainty.  I had seen that look only once before, the night she had stood above me on the steps after I had left her on the el platform and promised not to hide anymore.    

"Maybe I don't want you to."

We make our way toward the unmade bed, bodies twisting before moving together with pulsating alacrity, pubic bones fused in tantalizing symmetry, roiling waves of thunder that can no longer be contained.  

I reach down into the open fly of her jeans, tucking my fingers just under the spot where the elastic of her panties surrounds her inner thigh.  As I spread my hands and probe some more, I notice this pair feels differently somehow, a skimpy combination of satin and see-through lace, fancier than her standard fare.  Slowly, I move toward my intended destination, where lace met the soft v of cotton, and go inside, my index finger voraciously announcing my arrival.

"Are these new?"

She cocks her head to one side and shoots me a come hither look.

"Part of my 'shock and awe' campaign."  She nuzzles her lips into the hollow of my throat, covering it with fiery kisses.

Slowly I slide her jeans down and let them drift toward the edge of the bed.

It's my turn to let the fingers do the walking.  A throbbing ache bubbles up inside of me as they explore her bristling cavern, spreading bursts of intermittent pleasure conveyed in small wondrous moans punctured by sharp intakes of breath.

Her scent is everywhere.  I want to drown in its moon-kissed sweetness.

"Now…" Her plea at once beseeches and implores, piercing the black magic night with jagged desperation.

"Not yet." I slide myself down on the mattress as she reaches her arms over her head, her fingers tightly coiled around the wrought iron slats of the bedpost.

With eyes wide open, supple hands and probing lips, I explore every inch of her in a way that's light years beyond the laconic telepathy of our previous sexual encounters.  The soft, silky contours of her torso, the bridge between her breasts, the curving slope of her shoulder all become part of the sumptuous landscape as I launch my multi-faceted offensive.  

Choking back ravaged moans, she seethes with suppressed passion.

"Please, John…now."

"Soon.  Very soon."  My voice is barely above a whisper.

I'm left with little choice but to leave her dangling precariously on the precipice of pent up desire so I can attend to my own agenda in a desperate game of catch-up.

I join the party with a well-placed plunge.  Seeing her lost in her yearning, hearing her call my name with incredulity, it's easy to fall into a riveting lock step with her writhing motion. 

This, I knew, is everything.

More than everything, even.

It's all that we have left.

We cling to each other, locked in a wondrous, captivating dance of endless seesaw thrusts, building to a wild crescendo.

Until the floodgates open.

Until the earth stands still and everything inside us shatters.

Until all that's left between us is a thousand pounds of shrapnel, imploding into the darkness, raining down ominously into that good, but not so gentle, night.

* * * * *

The doctor in me has spent most of his time lately wanting to fix this.

_Not you, not me._

_Us._

_To put us back together again._

_Stronger than ever to weather the uncharted waters of whatever comes our way._

_So that I know where the chaos is taking me._

_Taking us._

_I've been spending some sleepless nights in Gamma's library lately, pouring through her eclectic mixture of classics, poetry and great American novels._

_The other night I stumbled across a dog-eared copy of a book that I remember her toting around a lot when I was younger, especially up at the lake in the summers after Bobby died._

_It's called "Gift From the Sea."  It was written by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, wife of Charles and mother of another little boy who died much too young._

_Just by thumbing through it, I finally understood why Gamma had found so much solace in it._

_Not only did she find a kindred spirit in someone who knew what it was like to lose a child, but someone who also restored her faith in the healing power of the sea as a magical elixir for troubled souls._

_One passage spoke volumes to me:_

The veritable life of our emotions and our relationships is intermittent.  When you love someone you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment.  It is an impossibility.  It is even a lie to pretend to.  And yet this is exactly what most of us demand.  We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships.  We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb.  We are afraid it will never return.  We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity – in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern.

****

Maybe "growing" and "changing" aren't the right words.

_Maybe it's more like "coming into our own.  
  
_

_Becoming._

_As individuals._

_And as partners._

_Wherever the ebb and flow shall lead us._

_Yours,_

_John_

_* * * * *_


	12. Last Call

Title:  Last Call 

Description:  Post-ep for "Things Change."  Twelfth chapter in "The Long Way," a series of Season 9 post-eps beginning with "First Snowfall."  Carter's POV.

Author:  KenzieGal (a/k/a It's Always Something)

Disclaimer:  Carter and Abby do not belong to me – they are the property of the wise and wealthy minds of TPTB at Warner Brothers.  No copyright infringement intended.

Spoilers:  Everything during Season 9 up to and including "Things Change." (#9-19)

Summary:  Carter grieves over Gamma's death and wonders how much longer he can play second fiddle in Abby's life.

Notes:  This is the latest installment in a series of crossover post-eps with Sunni's (a/k/a Lanie) Abby-centric "Reflections" series, the one that raised the bar for an entire genre that followed, which will continue through the remaining three episodes of Season 9.  Look for her to pick up the story thread in "Voices," (Chapter 17), her post-ep to "Things Change."  As mentioned in prior chapters, while the two-post eps are meant to be read in tandem and share a common theme, our work remains faithful to Abby (hers) and Carter's (mine) respective POVs.  Her chapters won't exactly parallel mine and vice versa.

Since I could not possibly have topped "The Saddest Song," tptb's most excellent choice from Annie Lennox's upcoming CD to provide a backdrop for some of most heart wrenching scenes we've seen on ER in quite a while, I've once again opted to weave the post-ep scenes around a literary passage.  Though a little on the long side, I feel that "_Grandmother_," written by Hans Christian Andersen in 1845, with its hauntingly beautiful prose, captures the complex, yet subtle emotional intricacies that are sure to torment Carter's psyche in the aftermath of Gamma's passing.

My apologies if this chapter misses the bar by a few (or more) inches when compared to previous installments.  An utter lapse in judgment (whatever was I thinking?) caused me to schedule a family vacation in the middle of the first week of May sweeps.  Hopefully I'll get myself back on track before the season finale.

Special thanks to Pemberley for keeping me entertained with generous doses of carby while in pseudo Portofino (we won't discuss my Web TV bill).  And to Lanie, Taylor Wise, Anna and Lesbiassparrow for filling my inbox with humor and hopefulness even in the wake of the darkest spoilers.  You ladies rock my world.

As always, reviews (even of the monosyllabic variety) are welcomed and appreciated.

* * * * *

_Grandmother is very old, her face is wrinkled, and her hair is quite white; but her eyes are like two stars, and they have a mild, gentle expression in them when they look at you, which does you good.  She wears a dress of heavy, rich silk, with large flowers worked on it; and it rustles when she moves.  And then she can tell the most wonderful stories.  Grandmother knows a great deal, for she was alive before father and mother – that's quite certain.  She has a hymn book with large silver clasps, in which she often reads; and in the book, between the leaves, lies a rose, quite flat and dry; it is not so pretty as the roses which are standing in the glass, and yet she smiles at it most pleasantly, and tears even come into her eyes.  "I wonder why grandmother looks at the withered flower in the old book that way?  Do you know?"  Why, when grandmother's tears fall upon the rose, and she is looking at it, the rose revives, and fills the room with its fragrance; the walls vanish as in a mist, and all around her is the glorious green wood, where in the summer the sunlight streams through thick foliage; and grandmother, why she is young again, a charming maiden, fresh as a rose, with round, rosy cheeks, fair, bright ringlets, and a figure pretty and graceful; but the eyes, those mild, saintly eyes, are the same – they have been left to grandmother.  At her side sits a young man, tall and strong; he gives her a rose and she smiles.  Grandmother cannot smile like that now.  Yes, she is smiling at the memory of that day, and many thoughts and recollections of the past; but the handsome young man is gone, and the rose has withered in the old book, and grandmother is sitting there, again an old woman, looking down upon the withered rose in the book._

* * * * * 

I gently guide the Jeep up the familiar sloping hill, grinding to a halt in the middle of the circular curve of the driveway, next to where a forsythia bush stood poised to burst into bloom. 

 I always knew this day would come.

Sooner or later.

After all, she couldn't live forever.

No one can.

I, of all people, should know that.

I've often wondered where I'd be when she took her last breath.

When the call came.

I had hoped to be by her side.  

Holding her hand.  

Laughing about the good times – from prank-filled days spent hiding in the folds of her draperies while playing cops and robbers with Bobby to sharing my hopes and dreams with her over a plate of chocolate chip cookies in the middle of the night while my parents were off wandering some far-flung country.

Telling her that she was the mother I had always wished I had.

Instead I found myself squiring a gaggle of wide-eyed medical students through the ER, helping them navigate their way through a laundry list of routine diagnoses, capped off by a valiant effort to thwart an old homeless guy from coding.  

I knew it the minute I saw Kerry standing there.  It was etched all across her face.  For the past few days, I had felt a palpable sense of impending doom, something I couldn't quite put my finger on.  As she stood in the doorway, she unleashed its fury on the world.  Suddenly, it had a name.  It was real to me.  

She was gone.

The earth did not stop spinning on its axis, but in that one moment my whole world took a sudden turn that would change everything.

And nothing would ever be the same.

_"Carter, you've got a phone call.  I'll take this."_

_"I'm OK.  I've got it."_

_"John, you really need to take this call.  It's your grandmother.  I'm sorry."_

_"Is she dead?"_

_"I'm sorry."_

For some odd reason, my immediate reaction, my gut instinct, was to try to prolong the life that I still could save.  All I wanted to do was to stave off the inevitable, even if was some poor lost soul who no one might miss.  Even he deserved to die with dignity.

My duty was to the living.

There would be plenty of time to grieve later on.

Lost in the soft haven of the woman I still hoped to be my bride.

Little did I know at the time that I'd never feel so alone.

I lift my tired body out of the vehicle, overcome by weariness and despair beyond anything I had ever known, squaring my shoulders as I approach the front door.  Lifting the key out of my pocket, I fit it into the lock and turn the knob gingerly, unsure whether any of the help would be there to greet me.

In the foyer, Mary, Gamma's devoted, inauspiciously competent housekeeper, greets me through glazed eyes.  She seems at a loss for words, unsure as to how far she should cross the hazy line separating the employer/employee relationship at a time like this.

"Dr. Carter."

For the first time today, I'm soothed by the prospect of encountering someone who knew my grandmother through and through, who felt my loss and knew how much she had meant to me.

"It's OK."  I open my arms in a warm embrace.

"Where's your father?"

"He took a later flight."  I remove my coat.  "He's going to be landing in a couple of hours.  Did my mother call?"

"No, I'm sorry."

Damn.  Still missing in action.  An epitaph that would follow her to her grave – Eleanor Carter, whereabouts unknown.

She pursed her lips in anticipation of conveying the rest of the messages she needed to deliver.  "Dr. Emerson was here earlier. He said you can call him at home later tonight."  I nod, the ever-dutiful grandson, appreciating as always her attention to detail.  "And Mr. Garrett called from the funeral home.  He apologized for the delay."  

The words didn't sink in at first.  That meant she was still here.  "They didn't come yet?"  My eyes ran up the staircase.

"They should be here any minute.  Can I get you something to eat?"  She tries her best to assuage the notion by extending the only other comfort she knows how to give – a hearty repast.  Why is it that people always think that death and food are a winning combination?

"No."  Though I hadn't eaten all day, food was the last thing on my mind.

"Tea, perhaps?"

"No, I'm fine.  Thanks."

Squaring my shoulders, I head toward the staircase.  

"Dr. Carter?"

I turn around to look at her.

"She was a wonderful woman."

"Yes, she was."  

Somehow her words gave me just the boost I needed to climb the stairs, knowing full well what awaited me behind her bedroom door.  

The end of my boyhood as I would forever mark it.

My parents had never spent much time on the softer side of family.

But my Gamma had.

For matters of the heart, she had always been my anchor, my baseline, my learning curve, my universe.

And now she was gone.

Willing my foot forward across the final step, I rounded the landing and closed my eyes, loosening my tie.  

And entered her room.

A myriad of emotions, too many, too mixed, too huge, threatened to topple me over and swallow me up like an undertow.  They choked my throat, twisted my belly, stabbed my heart.

I'll never forget my first glimpse of her lying there, her head propped up against the pillows, her slight frame looking wispy and birdlike, lost underneath the ruffled layers of quilt and cotton, as though she were simply slumbering in the middle of an early spring afternoon.

I know I'll remember this moment for the rest of my life with unbelievable clarity, so clearly and so well, that simply recounting it will always rekindle a pain deeper than anything a random encounter with a delusional law student could ever inflict, a hurt more profound that any feeling I had ever known.

Gingerly, I shut the door, immediately drawn to her bedside, my fingers instinctively reaching threw the stale air to smoothen the blanket and cover her icy, limp hands.

I grab a chair from the far left corner of the room and drew it to her bedside.  Wiping my nose, I sunk into it, never taking my eyes off of her, as though they somehow could will her back to life.

I lean forward and bow my head, overcome by the first waves of grief I allow myself the luxury of feeling since the call came.

She looks like an angel.

And so, I weep.

And weep.

And weep.

 Somehow I can't stop, can't control the waterworks that splatter freely onto the bedspread.

I cry for everything I've ever loved and lost.  Bobby, mostly, and the little brother I never became.

I cry for things that never were.  Her image of the dutiful philanthropic grandson she always dreamed I would be.

And I cry for all the things she never lived to see.

Dancing at my wedding.

Cradling her great-grandchild.

Witnessing the outcome of years of genteel railing against the trappings of my birthright.

I gaze around the darkened room, images blurred and disjointed through the glassy prism of my tears.  Everything in its proper resting place.  The tea service sitting on a bedside tray, its contents poised for her afternoon ritual.  A half-read novel tucked face down at the edge of the nightstand.  A bouquet of freshly cut orange red roses in a pewter vase.

Roses mean remembrance, she had always reminded my grandfather.

And he had seen to it that she had never done without them.

I'm not sure how long I sat there, but my mind is eventually jolted by the distant sounds of the doorbell ringing and the hushed tones of voices from the foyer.  

I stand up and return the chair to its original position, drinking in my surroundings, in a desperate attempt to capture one final snapshot of this moment in time.  

Deep down I knew that regrets and broken hearts and the elusive search for redemption are unfortunate souvenirs that line the prison walls of the living, not the dead.

She was in a better place, no doubt about it.

My whereabouts, on the other hand, were a whole different story.

With a tender brush of her hair and one last kiss on her cold, cold cheek, my lonely vigil is complete.  I exit the room and head back downstairs in search of those who would take us to our final destination.

* * * * * 

Grandmother is dead now.  She had been sitting in her armchair, telling us a long beautiful tale; and when it was finished, she said she was tired, and leaned her head back to sleep awhile.  We could hear her gentle breathing as she slept; gradually it became quieter and calmer, and on her countenance beamed happiness and peace.  It was as if lighted up with a ray of sunshine.  She smiled once more, and then people said she was dead.  She was laid in a black coffin, looking mild and beautiful in the white folds of the shrouded linen, though her eyes were closed; but every wrinkle had vanished, her hair looked white and silvery, and around her mouth lingered a sweet smile.  We did not feel at all afraid to look at the corpse of her who had been such a dear, good grandmother.  The hymnbook, in which the rose still lay, was placed under her head, for so she had wished it; and then they buried my grandmother.

* * * * *

Pangs of hunger and the sounds of a low rumbling deep in my belly flood the night, jolting me out of a disturbed, fitful sleep.  Unsure at first of my surroundings, I sit upright on the brocade sofa and groggily crane my neck, peering at the monotonously ticking wall clock which registers a quarter past two.  Looks like I must have dozed off in the library, awaiting my father's flight.

Picking up my satchel bag, I slowly make my way through the nocturnal shadows, noticing his briefcase brushing up against the bachelor's chest in the foyer, evidence of his safe arrival.  I push open the door to the kitchen in search of something soothing to settle the strains of my recalcitrant stomach.

From the refrigerator I withdraw the makings of a chicken salad sandwich and begin the task of assembling a post-midnight snack.  After pouring a glass of milk, I devour it quickly and ponder my next move.  

Instinctively, I know there's no more sleep to be had tonight.    

I reach for my satchel bag, which rests haphazardly across the granite countertop, and withdraw my cell phone.   Punching in the familiar numbers, I quickly scroll through the menu and listen to the contents of my inbox, discarding all but a precious two.

_"Hey John, it's me.  Um…I'm at a motel room at the airport because we missed our plane.  I'm sorry.  But I'm trying to get us on the first flight out tomorrow, and I'll try to call you later…Bye."_

I sit there numbly with the phone to my ear, trying hard to conjure up a word, to put a pricetag on the wounds she had inflicted yesterday.

Quickly, I punch in the button that deletes the message.

This was more than just our usual case of bad timing, more than my greatest life crisis occurring in the midst of one of her own.

This was disappointment, pure and simple.

_"Because all I ever do is disappoint you.  I feel like all I'm ever going to do is disappoint you."_

If this was her attempt to craft a self-fulfilling prophecy, the little lady had scored a ringer.  

For the first time in as long as I could remember, our wires had crossed, our intuitive, gut-level connectedness had failed us, our jumbled shorthand, always in a bizarre seamless sync, had veered wildly off course.  And played out to boot in front of an unusually embarrassed Pratt, who looked as though he'd wish the trauma room floor could swallow him whole.

"Can you leave right after this?"

"Yep, I'm ready to go right now."

"Good, 'cause I really don't want to do this alone."

"Do what?"

"Just all the arrangements, just everything that has to be taken care of."

"Carter, what are you talking about?"

"What are you talking about, where are you going?"

"To get Eric."

"What?"

"Yeah, he called from a truck stop outside of Des Moines."

"When did this happen?"

"This afternoon.  Oh, and I need you to write me a script for Depakote and Zyprexa.  What's wrong?"

"My grandmother died today.  Just didn't wake up from her nap."

"Carter, I'm so sorry.  No one told me."

It wasn't just that she had chosen Eric.  Having had a ringside seat to the rollercoaster ride that had characterized his descent into the bowels of his disease, I knew she was stuck between a rock and a hard place.   

No, it was the words that came afterwards that sucker punched me.

It was her utter inability to step outside of herself and feel my pain.

It was her failure to empathize with my plight, couching my grief with a string of hollow and banal platitudes, as though they were lifted directly from a Hallmark jingle.

It was the inflection in her voice as she mindlessly rubbed my arm when all I craved was to be swallowed up into a warm embrace.

_"She lived a very full and happy life, and you were a big part of that.  She wasn't sick, she wasn't in pain, she was in her own bed, it's not a bad way to go."_

Granted, in her defense, I had always held my relationship with my grandmother at an arms length distance and Abby, sensing my need to compartmentalize, had never crossed the line.  

Still, I was baffled by her stunning retreat.  Rather than trying to catch me as I fell, she seemed to want desperately to believe I could find my way without her.  

Rubbing my hand across my jaw, I listen to her second message.  

"Hey, um…It's me again.  I know you're probably sleeping right now…Or not, but um…I wanted to apologize…What I meant to say was…I'm sorry.  God, I can't even begin to think about how hard this must be on you.  I really do…I really do wish I were there.  And if I could do it all over, I would…I'll be on the first flight back in the morning.  Call me if you need anything.  Bye."   

Once again, she's trying to say all the right things, push all the right buttons.  Yet, as hard as I know she's trying, her well-intentioned words tumble flat against my ears.  Somehow, her words aren't nearly enough.  I'm still alone in Gamma's kitchen.

As I delete the second message, I pick up my satchel bag and extract the notebook that now follows me wherever I go like a second layer of skin.  Before the bottom dropped out of my day, I had ever intention of filling the pages that lined the next pivotal moment in our journey. 

My eyes glance downward at the next blank entry.

Pivotal Moment # 5:  Our Conversations by the Riverside 

I doubt I can do it justice this evening.

I smile ruefully thinking back on the riverside conversation I'd remember best, ironically one in which I had also attempted to avoid playing second fiddle in her life.

Looks like I was still batting zero.

Some things never change.

Wide awake and in need of a healthy catharsis, I opt to take a stab at it anyway. 

There was little left to lose.

Abby – 

_What was it about this familiar spot that first drew us to it until we made it our own?___

_It certainly offered a different perch than the view from our rooftop hideaway.___

_All during that year, as our bonds of friendship grew stronger and I began to tiptoe around my mushrooming romantic feelings, I learned so much about you there, sitting on our bench sipping bottomless cups of coffee and smoking countless cigarettes, sharing lighthearted, self-deprecating banter, leaning over across the railing, waxing nostalgic about life and love and careers and relationships and all the pulse points in between___

_More than once I felt as though I were peering out at you across a split screen – while Luka was filling your sexual needs, I was filling your emotional holes, particularly as you struggled to deal with Maggie's unexpected resurfacing in your life.___

_For a while I was content to play the role of true blue friend. ___

_ Until the walls I had built started to crumble in Oklahoma.  ___

_And the cumulative weight of my unrequited feelings became almost too much to bear.___

_And I decided to unburden my soul to you, to let you know that I wanted more than what you seemed capable of giving me.  ___

_Nearly all my life, I played second fiddle to someone else.___

_First Bobby. My cousin Chase.  My parents as they both used me as a pawn against each other.  ___

_And then Luka._

_You were the first person I ever wanted to do just that, to put me first.___

__

_I know I confused and startled you on that fateful sun-drenched day as the words tumbled out of my mouth with stark clarity, seemingly out of nowhere.___

_For the next few weeks, it was hard to gauge your reaction.___

_Until you showed up unannounced at my grandfather's funeral.___

_And gave me the first faint glimmers of hope.___

_That someday the last could be first.___

_Though the relationship gods conspired to keep us apart for a little longer, I can honestly say that there have been times this past year when I have never felt so loved, so needed.  By you, in your own inimitable way.___

_But lately these moments have been too rare and far between.___

_I'm not sure where I stand with you anymore.___

_Especially after today.___

_Though I know how much Eric needed you, what hurt the most was seeing how little you thought I needed you too.___

_On some level, I wanted you to fix it and make it all better, to take away all my pain, all my grief, just by the comforting arms of your presence.___

_Once I knew that wasn't possible, I longed for just the right words, to let me know you understood just how much I'd miss my Gamma.___

_Sadly, you could do neither.___

_Abby, today I realized that we haven't dug roots for ourselves as a couple.  It's always been about the here and now.  Our whole relationship has been steeped in the moment.  We've rarely spoken about our yesterdays and given little to no thought about our tomorrows.  Maybe that's why I felt this exercise was so important.___

_I didn't want to have to beg you to stay with me instead of running to Eric's rescue.  So I didn't.  I was already at a disadvantage because I already love you more than you love me.  And that gives you an edge somehow.  I wanted you to prove you loved me.___

_And you didn't.___

_Maybe someday you will.___

_Maybe someday we'll finally stick.___

_Yours,___

_John_

I put my pen down, dissatisfied with my entry, wondering if one day I'll regret them, knowing all the while that tonight the bitter words flowed freely from a desperate heart.

Rifling back through the pages, my eyes train down on the previous journal entry, the post-mortem on our trip to Oklahoma.  Words that I had bathed in pretty pastels just last week now terrified me.  

_We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships.  We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb.  We are afraid it will never return.___

In a matter of minutes, everything that I had stopped wanting a few short weeks ago was now everything I wanted.

To replace the tenuous bonds that for years Gamma had held together with duct tape and bailing wire.

A home.  

A family.

A woman who would be there.

It was all worth the risk if she was the one.

The one and only.

But was she?

I didn't know anymore.

No bottomless reservoir of love, no deep-seated kernel of affection was enough to stave off the hopeless incompatibility of two hearts spinning in wildly different orbits.

It was ebb tide.

* * * * *

On the grave, close by the churchyard wall, they planted a rose tree; it was soon full of roses, and the nightingale sat among the flowers, and sang over the grave.  From the organ in the church sounded the music and the words of the beautiful psalms, which were written in the old book under the head of the dead one.  The moon shone down upon the grave, but the dead was not there; every child could go safely, even at night, and pluck a rose from the tree by the churchyard wall.  The dead know more than we do who are living.  They know what a terror would come upon us if such a strange thing were to happen, as the appearance of a dead person among us.  They are better off than we are; the dead return no more.  The earth has been heaped on the coffin, and it is earth only that lies within it.  The leaves of the hymnbook are dust; and the rose, with all its recollections, has crumbled to dust also.  But over the grave fresh roses bloom, the nightingale sings, and the organ sounds and there still lives a remembrance of old grandmother, with the loving, gentle eyes that always looked so young.  Eyes can never die.  Ours will once again behold dear grandmother, young and beautiful as when, for the first time, she kissed the fresh, red rose, and that is now dust in the grave.


	13. Heir Apparent

**Title:  Heir Apparent**

Description:  Post-ep for "Foreign Affairs."  Thirteenth chapter in "The Long Way," a series of Season 9 post-eps beginning with "First Snowfall."  Carter's POV.

Author:  KenzieGal (a/k/a It's Always Something)

Disclaimer:  Carter and Abby do not belong to me – they are the property of the wise and wealthy minds of TPTB at Warner Brothers.  No copyright infringement intended.

Spoilers:  Everything during Season 9 up to and including "Foreign Affairs." (#9-20)

Summary:  After Gamma's funeral, Carter comes a little more undone.

Notes:  This is the latest installment in a series of crossover post-eps with Sunni's (a/k/a Lanie) Abby-centric "Reflections" series, the one that raised the bar for an entire genre that followed, which will continue through the two remaining episodes of Season 9.  Look for her to pick up the story thread in "Off Limits" (Chapter 18), her post-ep to "Foreign Affairs."  As mentioned in prior chapters, while the two-post eps are meant to be read in tandem and share a common theme, our work remains faithful to Abby (hers) and Carter's (mine) respective POVs.  Her chapters won't exactly parallel mine and vice versa.

Wouldn't you know that when I finally switch back to a "song of the post-ep," someone would beat me to the punch?  And I thought carby had bad timing.  With all due apology to pissed off poet, I chose this chapter's soundtrack  – "Sympathy" off the GooGoo Dolls' most excellent CD, "Gutterflower" – several weeks ago (my carby muses Lanie, Pemberley and Taylor Wise will vouch for me).  What can I say, great carby minds think alike.  And as my mother always told me, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery…

Looks like it's time once again to thank my loyal cadre of reviewers for their inimitable wisdom and inspiration:  the usual suspects (Lanie, Pemberley, Taylor Wise, Anna, Lesbiassparrow, MeganStar, Spooky Anne, Starbright,) and some new/returning faces on the frontier (Mbooker, Mbraveheart, Lilyhead, AnaDi, Ali, and Ceri).  And to flutiedutiedute, for a little gem that made all the angst worthwhile.

Real-life intrusions have caused me to be late to the party for the second straight episode.  So boatloads of bouquets conveying my deep sense of appreciation and gratitude go to Lanie for pulling me through my whininess and misery.  Not only did she write Carter's dream sequence (the best part of this post-ep in my very humble opinion) for me, but with characteristic pluckiness she also taught me ultimate life lessons in teamwork, collaboration and friendship.  

As always, reviews (even of the monosyllabic variety) are welcomed and appreciated.

* * * * *

Stranger than your sympathy 

_This is my apology_

_I'm killing myself from the inside out_

_All my fears have pushed you out_

_I wish for things that I don't need_

_All I wanted_

_And what I chase won't set me free_

_All I wanted_

_And I get scared but I'm not crawling on my knees_

_Oh yeah everything's all wrong yeah_

_Everything's all wrong yeah_

_Where the hell did I think I was_

_* * * * *_

I gingerly jangle the doorknob and peer inside Gamma's library.

A haven of sorts -- the source of so much solace for me these past few months.

And now a hiding place after I had watched them lower her body into the ground.

Truth be told, death was the only certainty left in this world.

And though I had already buried a brother and a grandfather, this time it was different.  

With Gamma, it had always been different.

I had never expected it to hurt this much.

To feel so numb, so empty, so alone.

I fall into a black leather mission style chair, kneading my temples and loosening my tie.  After munching on canapés and engaging in a torturous round of small talk with an odd conglomerate of mourners – as far as I could tell a commingling of distant relatives, old friends, household help and the thankful lot who had been on the receiving end of the Foundation's generosity – I had politely excused myself to find refuge in my familiar retreat.

I scoot my body down and rest the crook of my neck against the buttery leather of the club chair.  I fold my hands behind my head, my thoughts still a mercilessly alternating muddle of sorrow and anger.  

My mind is flooded by images of the macabre convergence of happenstance that would forever pierce my memory of her final send-off:  from the early morning visit from Kelvin Hamlin, the lawyer for her estate to the hurtful, strained conversation with my father that followed; from Abby's tardiness to Eric's spectacle; from the sight of the foreign, mournful look in my eyes that reflected back at me as she held them in her own to the tingle that reverberated throughout my entire body, hard as I tried to suppress it, when she laced her fingers through my hand and clutched my thigh.

Gamma had deserved so much better than what she had gotten today.

Somehow the orchestrated pageantry of my grandfather's farewell had been missing from the sad little affair that had transpired on this seemingly perfect sun-kissed spring morning.

Of course, his funeral had borne the thumbprint of days of careful planning on her part.

I smile ruefully thinking back to the afternoon of his reception when she too had felt the need to escape far from the concerned clutches of the maddening crowd.

When I had found her in the garage unsuccessfully trying to jumpstart Grandpa's bright red Jaguar convertible while uncorking a bottle of vintage champagne.

When I was probably the only person who understood where her head and heart were at in that particular moment.

_"People want to pay their respects."_

_"Well, they can wait.  I'm the widow."_

_"I hope you weren't thinking about drinking and driving."_

_"'We were saving that bottle for our 60th anniversary. Missed it by a year.  Open it."_

_"Nah, you can still wait…"_

_"Let's drink to your grandfather."_

_"It's a very nice vintage.  You sure you wouldn't want to share this with…we don't have any glasses."_

_"You can drink from the bottle."_

_"To John Truman Carter.  Entrepreneur.  Philanthropist.  Family man."_

_"And friend."_

_"We gonna take this old girl out for a spin or what?"_

_"Damn right."_

Still lost in thought, I stand up to massage the kinks out of my pesky back, crossing the room to gaze up at the rows of colorful bindings that line the wood-paneled walls.  I spot the place where I had returned "Gift From the Sea" to its original resting place, next to _The Collected Stories of Oscar Wilde, a particular favorite of hers.  Absently, I pull the book off the shelf and leaf through it, uncovering a yellowed bookmark with a detailed description in her familiar scrawl of the tome's origin; my grandfather had bought it at an antiquarian book fair on Mackinac Island in 1952, and made a present of it for their twentieth wedding anniversary._

Always, always a method to her madness.

Which must explain the business about the terms of her last will and testament.

I lean against the wall and skim the table of contents.

Gamma, how could you?

But I knew.  I knew it the minute Kel walked in the room this morning.

On paper, the decision didn't make much sense, especially in the aftermath of the symphony gala when she had formally announced that she would be stepping down as president of the Carter Family Foundation and turning the reins over to my father.  He'd been in office, what, all of three months?

The way I figured it, she thought he was fine at the helm as long as she was still around to pull some strings with her characteristically sweet but steely Svengali-like aplomb.

My eventual ascent to the throne was probably something that had always been in the back of her mind, once I had at long last reconciled the irascible dichotomy between my birthright and chosen profession.

She just hadn't planned on exiting this soon.

Or had she?

"I've spent so many years trying to get you to do what I think is best for you.  Your past, having me badger you about your choices.  This is yours.  Give it, or don't, to whomever you choose."

At some point, she must have simply decided to throw caution to the wind, toss all the cards in the air, and see where they landed.

Knowing she had make me an offer and done it in such a way that I couldn't possibly say no.

Damn you, Gamma.

Even in death, you still have to have the last word.

I'm sure she would have loved to be a fly on the wall during the awkward exchange with my father that followed Kel's morning house call.

My lips curled upward at the thought.  Knowing Gamma, she probably already had channeled a direct connection to our most intimate conversations.

"I didn't realize estate lawyers made house calls."

_"The Foundation Board called an emergency meeting for next week.  He just wanted me to be prepared."_

_"Prepared for what?"_

_"Gamma stipulated in her will that I be put in charge of the Foundation.  She appointed me as president."_

_"I see.  Well, I think that would be a good thing."_

_"For me or the Foundation?"_

_"Both."_

_"Look, Dad, it should have been you.  She must have figured since I'm in Chicago…"_

_"She put you in charge of the family fortune and left me with a little bachelor's trust fund.  I don't think it was a question of geography."_

_"I've also tried to stay as involved as I could…"_

_"John, who are you kidding?"_

_"You want me to tell you the truth.  She was disappointed in you as a son, as a father.  She didn't think you were up to it."_

_"You could sugarcoat it a little.  It's an opportunity for you."_

_"Not one that I wanted.  Now I'm stuck having to run the damn thing.  Or walk away."_

_"Looks like she managed to screw us both."_

My hand still clutching the book, I sprawl across the couch and open it to the first page.

Twinges of regret, like tiny pinpricks, course through my veins at the recollection of they way I had lashed out at my father.  

Why had I felt the need to widen the gulf by speaking for Gamma when he could no longer respond back to her, widening the rift between them, a rift that could no longer be healed?

My clinical training had prepared me to recognize the cycling stages of grief.

Over the years, I had recognized it in others.

Now it was my turn.

I knew I was grieving over more than just Gamma's death.

The part of me that had died with her.

And the part that had not yet emerged from the wreckage.

It was a feeling unlike anything I had ever known, even during the throes of my early days in Atlanta.  I felt lost, caught in an inescapable vortex of panic, anger, malaise and despair, as though I were on an elevator locked in a death spiral sinking wildly out of control into the depths of my darkest fears and bleakest imaginings.

I wanted to hurt those closest to me and crawl inside them at the same time.  Whichever method proved immediately effective at my fingertips to shutting out the unbearable, inchoate emptiness. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the doorknob jiggle and my father enter the room, his fingertips permanently clutched around an icy tumbler.  I wonder how many this one made.  

Looking up and closing the book, I'm hit with a strange sense of déjà vu.  In another "aha moment," I recall finding him glued to the television set after my grandfather's funeral, lamenting the news about his biotech stock sinking to basement levels.  Talk about role reversal.

I opt to open the conversation by tossing him a softball.  "I didn't know Gamma had collected the Oscar Wilde first edition."  I examined the book's binding.

"Oh…there was a story about him late in his life, she loved to tell…I can't quite remember."

She had regaled anyone who would listen with countless renditions of the tale, especially in her later years.  I hated him for forgetting.

"He was on this deathbed drinking champagne.  And when a friend of his asked him what he was doing, he said, 'Isn't it obvious?  I'm dying beyond my means.'"  I sat up on the couch.

"She was a society lady with the heart of Stonewall Jackson."  He deposited himself in the leather club chair.

I hunch forward and mindlessly spin a globe that rests on the coffee table.  Time to mend fences with my fractured family, the little that I had left.  Him.  And her.  Wherever she was, we still hadn't been able to reach her.  If, as they say, 90 percent of life is "showing up," my mother would have sleepwalked through it in a dazed stupor.

"I didn't mean what I said before."

"It is what it is, John, you can't pretend it was anything else."  Then, switching the subject, "Not much of party, huh?"  He takes a long slow swig of his drink.

"Not much of a funeral."  I shoot him a wounded smile.

"It certainly was memorable."  There was no mistaking the dryness in his voice.

"More like embarrassing."  I didn't like where the conversation was going.  I leaned back in the sofa, fiddled with my tie and crossed my legs, my discomfort suddenly rising to a fever pitch.

"Is that why Abby's not here?"  

I could picture what he was really thinking; the little match girl and her crazy brother.  Taking a deep breath, I ignored the comment.  

"I was just having a hard time mingling.  Sharing duck canapés and cosmos with a bunch of people I don't really know."  I folded my hands.

"You don't need to stay if you don't want, it's alright."  He rose from his chair as if to dismiss me.

Suddenly my softer side lunged ahead in the dueling foot race with its harsher counterpart.  Perhaps this was my last best chance to make amends.

"I'm sorry, Dad."  I got up from the sofa and walked toward him, hitching my hands in my pockets.  "I'm really sorry."  He turned around to face me, perplexed by my sudden change in tone.  "I feel like I blew it."

In a magnanimous gesture that surprised me, he more than met me halfway.  "Well you didn't.  Neither did Abby."  He patted my arm and I opened them up in what could only be characterized as an awkward, perfunctory embrace.  Still, it was a start.

"Let it go, son.  Let it go."  He exited the room.

For a long time, I just stood there my gaze fixed on the wooden door.

What had the reverend said above the din today about when God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window?

I thought long and hard about the words he had spoken. 

What had the reverend said above the din today about when God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window?

I thought long and hard about the words he had spoken. 

And then reluctantly set out for County General to find my other family.

* * * * *

Stranger than your sympathy 

_I take these things so I don't feel_

_I'm killing myself from the inside out_

_Now my head's been filled with doubt_

_It's hard to lead the life you choose_

_All I wanted_

_When all your luck's run out on you_

_All I wanted_

_You can't see when all your dreams are coming true_

_Oh yeah it's easy to forget yeah_

_You choke on the regrets yeah_

_Who the hell did I think I was_

* * * * *

I unlock the door and enter my apartment, numb to the bone, a stranger in my own home.

Mechanically, I remove my clothes and head straight for the shower.  The hot, pulsing spray feels like a tonic on my skin, soothing my weary muscles and joints.  I linger in the stall until my fingers begin to pucker and then quickly change into a faded set of scrubs.

Peering into the refrigerator, I'm greeted by a moldy sesame bagel, half a box of Krispie Kreme donuts, a brick of muenster cheese and two half-empty cans of Diet Vanilla Coke.  Hardly the stuff of which memorable meals are made.  I pull some saltines from the cupboard and spread them with peanut butter and finish up the last of the soda.  Flat.  How fitting.

I wander into the living room, leafing through a carelessly strewn pile of bills, junk mail, magazines and catalogs that rests on the coffee table.  For some reason, I squat and spread myself down on the floor, resting my back against the sofa.  I run a hand across my stomach, trying my best to push away the familiar piercing deep-in-the-hollow-of-the-belly-ache that would always be synonymous with loving her.

And losing her.

Wrapping my arms around my knees, I hoarsely mouth her name into the darkness.

Abby.

I need you.

Then why had I sent her away?

Not once, but twice?

My mind wanders back to the conflicting mixture of emotions that bubbled up inside of me as I sat in the cemetery after the funeral and watched her tend to Eric's need, processing her every move through a resentful here-we-go-again prism.  

"He's calmer now.  I gave him some Depakote."

_"How much?"_

_"The whole bottle.  I was stuck.  I-I, he couldn't be left alone.  I really wanted to be here with you, and I thought he would just wait in the car, and I'm really sorry, John.  I'm gonna drop him off at the hospital and then I'll come by the house, OK?"_

_"What for?"_

_"Because he agreed to be evaluated, maybe go into a locked ward."_

_"No, I mean why come by the house?"_

_"I know what happened was terrible, unforgivable, really, but my brother is sick and he's struggling, and I'm just trying to help him survive."_

_"Mmm-hmmm.  So go do that."_

Hard as I tried, I could no longer bring myself to share her with Eric; if I couldn't have all of her, I wanted none of her.  No more second fiddle.  No more Mr. Nice Guy.  No more Johnny-on-the –spot.  It was that simple.  

  

But then buoyed by the conversation with my father, I had had a misguided epiphany of sorts. I had gone to the ER to make things right.  Only to be rebuffed at every turn, still a hostage to bad luck and a prisoner to bad timing.  In the end, the victims of the gangland shooting that diverted my attention as I tried unsuccessfully to connect with her seemed to be the only things I was capable of saving.

"OK, why don't we just get out of here?" 

_"You know I came to find you, right?  I shouldn't have, I shouldn't have come."_

_"It's OK, things are going to get better."_

_"Can you do me a favor?  Can you leave me alone?"_

_"What?"_

_"I need some time.  Can you just go?"_

_"OK."_

Standing there, all I wanted to do was hurt her, cut her to the marrow, watch her bleed.

Love her, lose myself in her soft caresses, watch her build me back up.

Two distinct concepts at war with one another.

And no easy answers, no matter how desperately I wanted them.

I reach over for my satchel bag, which lies propped up against the end table, pulling out the familiar now-tattered notebook.  It was strange the way I was deriving unexpected solace from a project that was primarily intended to draw out _her emotions.  Things seemed so much easier on paper.  So much easier than I had ever thought._

I rifle through the pages until I come to the last half-finished entry I had begun writing last night in Gamma's library.  My eyes stare down at the heading at the top of the page.  

If it weren't so spooky, it'd be almost comical.

Pivotal Moment #6:  "Crashing" My Grandfather's Funeral 

**__**

For the first time since the exercise began, the words had not come easy.

April 27, 2003 

_Abby –_

_As I sit here on the night before my grandmother's funeral, I can't help but wonder if we're still on the same page in penning our entries.  After all, since this is a self-paced assignment, I have no way of knowing what role fate may have played in the timing of this particular entry._

_But pivotal it is. For so many reasons._

_I can still hear the strains of the harpist as I wandered restlessly through the throng of people gathered to pay their respects to my grandfather, my eyes coming to rest on the enormous portrait of Bobby and I that greets visitors in the mansion's front hall._

_I can still feel the flutter in my chest as I learned I had an unexpected visitor._

_And I saw you standing there._

_I was floored by your stubbornness.  And surprised by your pluckiness._

_Especially after I had told you I would never ask to subject you to the company of 200 Chicago bluebloods in a quest for a simple cup of coffee._

_But you came anyway._

_Just for me._

_Offering comfort and friendship and a sympathetic ear._

_Though things were still awkward between us after my riverside revelations, it was exactly what I needed at that moment._

_And for that I will always be grateful._

_It's funny how Gamma's death has affected me so much differently than my grandfather's.  Though he was the Carter family patriarch, she was its rock, its anchor._

_And just always, always there for me, no matter how far off the reservation I may have wandered._

_His death hit me very much like I told you as we sat there on the bench next to the crumpled birdbath giggling about the absurdity of it all._

_We have to die somehow.  A sunny day.  Doing something he loved.  Not a bad way to go._

_Maybe those words were a harbinger for the ones you chose to comfort me in the ER after I told you Gamma had died._

_"She lived a very full and happy life, and you were a big part of that.  She wasn't sick, she wasn't in pain, she was in her own bed, it's not a bad way to go."_

_Then why weren't they enough for me?_

_And why did I resent you so much for saying them?_

_I think I know the answer now._

_Because things are so much different between us now and I expect so much more from you._

_Things that you seem unwilling or unable to give me._

_And it's the widening gulf between the enormity of Gamma's death and the enormity of what I need from you that I'm having the hardest time reconciling right now._

And that was as far as I had gotten.

Suddenly, I'm overwhelmed by exhaustion.  My mind can't process another thought.  Slowly I get up and pad into my bedroom, flinging myself down between the sheets and drawing the rumpled comforter up to my shoulders.

Despite the rage and disappointment roiling inside me, I still find myself clinging to the big dreams my whole life depended on.

And so, as my head touches the pillow, I retreat to the one place where I could hold her still long enough to keep us from falling prey to the continuously looping reel of bad timing that had underwritten our destiny.

My wildest dreams.

* * * * *

A knocking from outside my subconscious draws me out of what had been at best been a less than restful slumber.

I rub my hands across my face as I make my way towards my apartment door, fumble with the locks and find the door handle.  I pull the door open, fully prepared to berate my late-night visitor.

My eyes adjust to the vision standing before me.  I should have known.

Standing in a sweatsuit and sneakers, her hair loosely hanging across her shoulders, she stares back up at me from her perch in the doorway.

"Hi."

I frown and look up and down the hallway.  "Abby, what are you doing here?"

"I've been standing here for the past twenty minutes, debating whether or not to use my key."

"What?  I…"

She heaves an exasperated sigh.  "Can I come in?"

I step aside and hold my hand out to show her the way.  I watch as she passes by me quietly and moves into the middle of the room before stopping with her back towards me.  I shut the door as she turns around, a confused, startled look cast upon her face.

"Were you sleeping?"

"If you could call it that."  I make a face.  "It's like…twelve-thirty in the morning."

She glances over her shoulder.  "Oh."  Facing me once more, she bites her lip.  "I'm sorry."

Now it's my turn to sigh.  "Yeah."

She nods and gives me a small smile. Empathy?  I can't be sure.

"Abby?"

She raises her eyebrows.  "Hmm?"

"What are you doing here?"

She frowns and studies her sneakers.  "Umm…"

"I thought I told you…" I wave my hand submissively in the air and shake my head.  "Never mind."

"What?"

My hand finds a resting spot on my neck as I dip my head and begin to knead.

"John?"

"Just…go."  I turn on my heel and head back towards my bedroom.

Her touch pulls me to a stop.

"Hey.  Come on.  It's me."

One glance over my shoulder tells me she won't be dismissed as easily this time.

I twist around to face her again.  "Where's Eric?"

She tips her head to the side.  "Does it matter?"

I let out a low groan.  "Look, Abby…"

"No, John."  She spreads her arms wide at her sides and peruses the darkened room before looking me squarely in the eye.  "I'm here."

I scoff lightly.  "Yeah.  For now."

My words hit her like a slap across the face and she cowers back momentarily before responding.  I can almost trace the changes in her face as her expression softens.

"I'm sorry, John."

I close my eyes and rub my temples.  I won't be sucked in again.  Not this time.  "It's late."

"John."

I open my eyes and allow my gaze to melt into hers.  She bites her lip and rewards me with a sympathetic smile.

"Yeah, whatever."  It's all I can manage before retreating to my bedroom.  "Goodnight, Abby."

I roll my eyes when I hear the sound of her footsteps pad down the hallway as she follows in close pursuit.  Still, I continue on, picking my plaid comforter off the floor.  She switches on the light next to the armoire, basking the room in a sharp, unforgiving brightness.  I shut my eyes quickly and clench my fists, throwing the bedcover high in the air above the mattress.  It lands in a flurry of soft folds.

"Abby, you really don't want to get into this.  Trust me.  Just go."

She crosses her arms over her chest.  "Go where?"

"Home. Back to Eric.  Wherever you've been for the past four days."

She shakes her head adamantly.  "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because…"  She takes a step closer.  "Because I know you better than that."

I open my mouth as an acerbic retort springs to the tip of my tongue, then think better of it, and purse my lips together.  I try once more and chicken out again.  Throwing my hands up in the air, I drop to the edge of the mattress and hang my forehead into them.

"I…I don't know what to do," I finally admit.

The bed shifts as she lowers herself beside me, her hand rubbing my back.

"I just feel…lost," I add, my voice cracking under the weight of suppressed emotion.

"Shhh…"  She stokes my head gently.  "She meant a lot to you…"

I shake my head and sit up, rubbing the tears out of my eyes.  "It's just…all my life, she was always, always there.  I can't believe she's gone."

"I know she was like a mother to you."  She glances away and takes a deep breath before continuing.  "I meant what I said, John.  As much as I'd like to think I do, I have no real idea what you're going through right now.  And I'm sorry…"  She gazes up at the ceiling, finding it hard to keep her own emotions in check.  "I'm sorry I wasn't there.  It wasn't fair. To either of us."

I struggle to swallow against the lump in my throat.  "You did what you had to do."

She rolls her eyes.  "Right."  Pursing her lips, she ponders a thought as she picks up my hand.  "You told me awhile ago that you weren't going anywhere."  She laces her fingers between mine and squeezes my palm tightly.  "I promised myself I'd return the favor one day."

I look down at our entwined fingers and rotate my jaw.  "It's not about obligation, Abby."

"I know."

My gaze meets hers.  "Then what?  Where does that leave us?"

She stares at me for several seconds, her eyes traveling around my face before settling back on my own.  "If you can sit there and tell me that you want me to go, I will."

I blink once.  "And if I don't?"

She flashes a wry smile.  "Then I just might wrap my arms around you and hold you for a few hours."  Her face falls suddenly and she brings her free hand to my face, wiping away an errant tear from my cheek.  "Please?"

I catch her hand as she begins to pull it away and kiss her palm.  "I could really use you right now."

The smile returns to her lips and she tips her head to the side.  "Here I am."

"Don't go."

She pulls herself further up on the bed, scooting back against the headboard.  Propping one pillow behind her head, she places the other against her chest and reaches out to me.  I nod in her direction and take a moment to remove her sneakers, dropping them to the floor with a gentle thud.  I join her side, laying my head against her chest.  She pulls the covers over both of us before wrapping her arms around me, one of her hands finding a spot in my hair as the other sleepily traces a path up and down my left arm.  A soft kiss lands atop my head as she sinks further into the mattress underneath me.

"Just go to sleep."

I smile to myself, expelling a breath I didn't know I had been holding.  My eyelids droop closed, and I allow myself to be lulled to sleep by her rhythmic breathing and soft caresses.

As it should be.

* * * * *

I awake with a start, bolting upright in the tangled bedclothes as I struggle to identify my surroundings.

Massaging my temples in an attempt to ward off the dull ache that is beginning to form behind my eyes, I get up and wander into the living room and flick the remote, looking for something sufficiently insufferable to lull me back to sleep.

As Emeril prepares a Cajun feast, I pick up the discarded notebook that lays tossed at my feet.

I should probably finish it.  Get it over and done with.

I press the mute button and pick up a pen as I reread the stilted passage, wondering what's left to say.

I think for a minute and then begin to write.

I wanted you to be there for me today.  I needed you to be there.  But we just seemed to be sabotaged at every turn.

_I couldn't help but resent Eric's presence, especially in light of all that happened, though deep down I understood why you had to bring him._

_And a part of me was comforted by the warmth of your touch during the funeral service and in the cemetery afterwards.  It reminded me of a similar overture I made to Gamma during my grandfather's funeral as I reached out to stroke her black-gloved hand.  Somehow, once again,  you just sensed what I needed at that moment._

_But it wasn't enough._

_And so blinded by a potent concoction of grief, jealousy and self-pity, I sent you away, not once, but twice, rather than risk the strain of your divided loyalties._

_Abby, I'm not in a very good place right now._

_Neither are we._

_You.  Me.  Us._

_I don't know what's real anymore._

_And what isn't._

_And after the events of the past few days, I can't help but wonder what we owe our families.  Both our blood relatives and the one-time strangers we hope to build our lives around._

_I don't know right now._

_So until I do, this will just have to be my unfinished symphony._

_Yours,_

_John_

I put down my pen, haunted by the look of pained, but dutiful acquiescence that framed her face as she left me in the suture room.

I thought of all of the far flung places I had followed her over the past year.

The loading dock at the Lava Lounge.

The front steps of her apartment.  

Nebraska.

Back to Chicago after an aborted trip to Belize.

The rooftop at County.

Outside the El entrance on St. Patrick's Day.

No more.

I was done doing the pursuing.

But maybe it was time she showed her hand.

Or maybe it was more than that.

Maybe it was time to toss all the cards up in the air and see where they fell.

If anywhere at all.

Just like Gamma had.

* * * * *

Stranger than your sympathy 

_All these thoughts you stole from me_

_I'm not sure where I belong_

_No where's home and I'm all wrong_

_And I wasn't all the things_

_I tried to make believe I was_

_And I wouldn't be the one to kneel_

_Before the dreams I wanted_

_And all the talk and all the lies_

_Were all the empty things disguised as me_

_Yeah stranger than your sympathy _

_Stranger than your sympathy_

* * * * *


	14. Late for the Sky

**Title: Late For The Sky**

Description: Post-ep for "When Night Meets Day." Fourteenth chapter in "The Long Way," a series of Season 9 post-eps beginning with "First Snowfall." Carter's POV.

Author: KenzieGal (a/k/a It's Always Something)

Disclaimer: Carter and Abby do not belong to me – they are the property of the wise and wealthy minds of TPTB at Warner Brothers. No copyright infringement intended.

Spoilers: Everything during Season 9 up to and including "When Night Meets Day." (#9-21)

Summary: As Carter arrives at O'Hare for the first leg of his Congo adventure, an unexpected visitor is on hand to wish him bon voyage. 

Author's Notes: This is the next-to-last installment in a series of crossover post-eps with Sunni's (a/k/a Lanie) Abby-centric "Reflections" series, the one that raised the bar for an entire genre that followed. Look for her to pick up the story thread in "No Room for Goodbye" (Chapter 19), her post-ep to "When Night Meets Day." As mentioned in prior chapters…well those who find themselves here, surely know the drill by now.

The lyrics cued up at the outset of each vignette are from Jackson Browne's classic angst-ridden ballad, "Late for the Sky." I know many readers tend to skip over the words for post-ep songs, but if you'd just take a minute to let them sink in, I think you'll find an eerie parallel with Carter's frame of mind as you picture him leaving for the airport and an uncertain destination. In this case, even more so than with past post-eps, I can actually hear this tune playing in the background. I hope you can too. 

Another one down, one more to go…although an alternate universe primed epilogue, continuing the crossover with "Reflections" to its logical conclusion, is in the works. Once again, my apologies for the tardiness of this entry – real life intrusions of the most annoying variety felt the need to tango with inspiration and wordsmithing once again. As Lanie, to whom credit and kudos go for penning the airport crossover scene, opined in her author's notes for Chapter 19, this isn't nearly as much fun as it used to be; four sweeps episode fired in rapid succession at even the most primed carby lovers, can only wreak havoc on our schedules, never mind our abilities to churn out timely, insightful, jaw-dropping post-eps. Thanks ever so much for your patience and unflagging support – we appreciate it more than words can say (and how often do you suppose we are rendered speechless?). 

Special thanks to Taylor Wise for her unflagging encouragement, wit and wisdom as well as the most faithful band of reviewers this gal could ask for: Lesbias Sparrow, flutiedutiedute, MeganStar, Ana Di, Spooky Anne, Mbraveheart, Mbooker, Lilyhead, Anna, Starbright, Ali, and Ceri. And welcome to the carby party, Midnighter92.

As always, reviews are like chocolate. They don't call it "fat and happy" for nothing… :o)

_* * * * *_

_The words had all been spoken_

_And somehow the feeling still wasn't right_

_And still we continued on through the night_

_Tracing our steps from the beginning_

_Until they vanished into the air_

_Trying to understand how our lives had led us there_

* * * * *

I step out into the early morning stillness, dropping my duffel bag and backpack on the bottom step. Leaning against the railing, I turn around and peer up at the brightening sky, sleepily recovering from its brush with moonlit destiny. 

I flick my wrist up and check the time. Oh-eight-hundred. The dispatcher at the cab company had promised a taxi in ten minutes.

To take me away.

Far, far away.

Across the ocean and across the sky.

To the throes of the African jungles.

Anywhere but here.

My gaze lingers on the hands of my watch, wondering how many machinations it would undergo in the coming weeks as I slipped in and out of time zones.

It had been a split second decision actually, a stunningly eerie confluence of interlocking puzzle pieces that had sent my world reeling in the two weeks since I had returned my paperwork to the Alliance de Medecins Internationale. And yesterday, as day prepared to converge with night and I had been bowled over by a palpable hollowness, of mind, heart, mission and spirit, the likes of which I had never known, the timing gods had ever more dubious tricks for me up their sleeves.

A flurry of patients seemingly sent from doomsday hell.

A Buddhist nun with end-stage breast cancer.

A gangbanger's brother hell bent on revenge.

A little girl fallen overboard.

A heart attack waiting to happen.

For the better part of my shift, I had steeled myself in a suit of protective armor, determined to tough it out at any cost, buoyed by the prospect of meeting my father in Rio de Janeiro for a quick, sun-drenched getaway.

Time to think.

And time to regroup.

But amidst the daytime chaos, he had phoned, asking for a rain check, explaining in vague, subdued tones that he needed a few extra days to close a mysterious business deal. 

And then the call had come from Luka.

_Can you hear me? Hello?_

_Yeah, barely. What's going on?_

_One of our doctors was hurt here and had to be evacuated to Burundi._

_Hurt how?_

_We're expecting a fourth but they're having trouble with her visa._

_Luka, you've got to speak up._

_Do you know a contact at the State Department to push her visa through?_

_What contact?_

_I thought you knew someone there._

_Yeah, my family had a friend who was ambassador to Uruguay, but –_

_Call him._

_I don't know him. Can't the Alliance fix it?_

_Not enough –_

_What?_

_We're trying to travel to Matenda but the main road is blocked. There's a cholera epidemic in the refugee population, but we can't even get the rehydration –_

_You want someone to come and pitch in for a couple of weeks?_

_What?_

_I've already had my shots, my visa._

_I thought you changed your mind –_

_Yeah, but you know, if you're stretched –_

_OK, I gotta go. Can you come now?_

_Yeah, OK._

_Get on a plane. Call the Alliance._

_Hello?_

I gingerly squat down and perch my weary body on the next to bottom step, resting my elbows on my knees and running my hand across my jaw. The last twelve hours had been a whirlwind, though once I had made up my mind, the details had fallen into place with surprising alacrity. Katie Witcher, my always on-call whiz bang of a travel agent, had put in yeoman service, patching me through to the Dark Continent from O'Hare with just two three-hour layovers: one in New York City and another in London. She had even managed to get me a refund on my unused ticket to Rio. And after perusing the packing list provided by the Alliance I had opted to make do with items available at my fingertips, including many of the clothing items I had originally packed for my aborted sojourn to Rio. I only hoped I wouldn't look too much like a poster child for Banana Republic.

Head bent down, staring at the uneven pavement, two bright pink sneakers skip into view. My head jerks up as a doe-eyed girl with brown pigtails, weighted down with a Barbie backpack, clutches her father's hand as he walks her to school. She has a cherubic singsong voice.

_Step on a crack, break your mother's back._

Her father shushes her as they saunter by, but not before her brown eyes catch mine and she flashes me a loopy gap-toothed grin. 

I respond with a quick wink and then am forced to look away as something catches in the back of my throat.

It was official.

My heart was breaking.

Would it ever be right again here?

Would it ever seem like home?

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the yellow Flash Cab taxi sidle up to the curb. As the driver pops the trunk, I stand up and give my building a final once over. After placing my bags inside, I slam the trunk shut and turn around to cast one last look upward.

It had always been easy to see her face etched across the Chicago sky. It had become something of a game, really, like the way some devotees turned toward Allah. Soft tendrils of brown hair and sparkling eyes to match framing delicate cheekbones, pursed lips, alternately punctuated by looks of bemusement, quiet thoughtfulness, and simple beauty.

A sight for sore eyes.

But today, my eyes squeezed shut tightly against the brilliant morning rays, nothing.

Just a sea of white, shapeless puffy clouds.

She was gone. 

* * * * * *

_Looking hard into your eyes_

_There was nobody I'd ever known_

_Such an empty surprise to feel so alone_

* * * * * 

I slink out into the shadows of the darkened corridor, shoulders hunched, the weight of the world resting on them. Or at the very least the indelible image of two pairs of brown eyes that had gazed up at me in wide-eyed wonder as I haltingly described their father's last moments on earth, pilfering a permanent piece of my soul.

Trying my best to shake the image, I hurriedly contemplate a mental checklist of things to do: call Katie to switch my flight, repack my suitcase to reflect my change in destinations, bone up on the background material the Alliance had provided. But somehow the boy and girl's faces won't go gently into the good night. 

And I know there'll be no forgiveness, no closure any time soon.

How long would I find myself caught in this torpor of overwhelming melancholy?

Stop the world. I want to get off.

_So much sadness._

_Only through our own acceptance do we realize our purpose._

The words of the two Buddhist nuns suddenly loop through my head like bookends.

Is that what I hoped to find there?

As I step out into the ambulance bay and pull out my fare card, I'm lulled out of my reverie by the jolt of electricity that scorches my insides at the sight of her strutting determinedly into my footpath. She comes to a sudden breathless stop.

"Hey."

"Hey." I put the El pass in my pants pocket.

"Did you see the eclipse?" The words are winded, tumbling out in a rush of suppressed emotions, her face muscles working overtime to convey the concern that percolates just beneath the surface.

I'd never seen her this frightened.

Welcome to the club.

"Yeah, sort of." My voice is flat, subdued. I look up to the sky for direction, but there is none, only the starless remnants of its afternoon rendezvous with destiny.

"Pretty freaky, huh?" She hooks her thumb skyward, her eyes riveted to my face, looking, I could only imagine, for some faint glimmer of whatever she used to find behind them. 

Searching for a sign that they loved her like they used to.

Only problem was, no one was home. Not anymore.

"Yeah, I guess." I look up again, then rub my thumb across my eyes, blinded by the dizzying thump that shoots through my left right temple.

The quizzical look morphs into overt concern as she moves towards me. "You have a rough shift?" Her voice is halting, imploring. _Damnit Carter, talk to me._

"Yeah, there was this guy…" I throw up my hands. "This MI, he asked me for a pen and some paper to write a note to his kids…and I couldn't save him, but I could have…" I'm having trouble meeting her gaze.

"What?" She tries her best to look right through me, her eyes still searching my face. She blinks hard then raises her eyebrows. I notice she's wearing make-up. It suits her well in the blue black light.

"Nothing." I can't bear to look at her, to have her see me like this. All I can do is stare up at the sky. "Nothing's right here." I start to walk away.

She's not done with me, not yet. She ambles after me.

"Hey. I haven't seen you in a week. That's it?"

I offer a silent nod.

"Luka called me…"

My face darkens. Ah, time for a little emotional manipulation. When in doubt, play your trump card. I hang my head and stare at my shoelaces.

"…looking for you. He was under the impression I might know where to find you."

I nod in tacit acquiescence, dreading the place where the conversation was headed.

"You're going right – to Africa?"

_"I'm not going anywhere."_

The fateful words came back to haunt me, sounding a bruising cacophony against my eardrums.

How many places had I been since then?

Nebraska.

Boston.

Belize.

Rio. Almost.

In the split second after the words leave her lips, it all becomes real to me. 

And I knew I was going.

To Africa.

"It's not Rio, but it's not here." 

Though I try to seal the quip with the best smile I can muster, I know she isn't fooled so easily. And I can't bring myself to say goodbye. 

She contemplates my pronouncement as it rolls around in the chilly night air.

With a brave nod, she turns on her heels and walks through the double glass doors.

And out of my life.

For now.

Walking toward the El platform, a fire engine rushes by. My eyes follow it to its intended destination; Doc Magoo's is ablaze, its towering flames illuminating the night sky.

This can't be happening. 

Doc's burning in effigy, a metaphor for my tattered life.

The place where it had all began.

You. Me. Us.

I look back toward the ambulance bay, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, hoping to gauge her reaction.

But she's already gone inside.

What to do now?

I feel the tug of a thousand different directions.

_"If I were you, I'd run for my life and never look back."_

_"Run away, Carter. Run as fast as you can."_

Faced with the prospect of staring down my demons under the klieg lights of my current discontent, or taking my chances on an uncertain adventure deep in the wilds of Africa, the choice now is easy.

And so I walk faster toward the El and whatever awaits me on the other side of the world.

But I'd be back someday.

To build it all back up.

* * * * * *

_Now for me some words come easy_

_But I know that they don't mean that much_

_Compared with the things that are said _

_When lovers touch_

* * * * *

I gaze out the window at the vast industrial tableau of Interstate 90 as the cabbie speeds toward O'Hare, my mind still a blur from the domino effect of the decisions made over the past 24 hours, my stomach a tightly round rubber band ball of excitement, apprehension, fear and dread. 

I know I should probably call her. Someone deserved to know the details of my whereabouts, my abrupt change in plans. I had left a hastily scribbled note for Weaver, mentioning only that I'd be gone a few more days than the ten I had requested off to go to Rio. 

I check my watch – 8:30 a.m. If her shift ended at 7, she might be home by now. Zipping open my backpack, I extract my cell phone and punch in the familiar number.

A groggy voice answers on the fifth ring. "Hello?"

"Hey."

No response.

"Did I wake you?"

Still, no answer.

"You alone?"

"Who is this?" 

"It's me. I'm in a cab on my way to the airport."

"Carter?"

"You sure you're alone?"

"Moi? The gay divorcee?"

I chuckle despite the sinking feeling still weighing down my heart like lead.

"So, did you see the eclipse?"

I can hear her get out of bed and pad through her apartment.

"Carter, what's this really about? Look, put this place and everything you've been through the past few weeks out of your mind. Go to Rio, lie on the beach, catch some rays, go body surfing, spend some quality time with you dad. If you feel the need to meditate, climb that hill where that big statute of Christ overlooks the entire city." She pauses for a minute and then adds softly, "I'll keep an eye out on Abby." 

Vintage Susan. Always the matchmaker. Never the match.

I let her advice hang in the air for a moment recalling our conversation in the ambulance bay yesterday morning when I had mentioned my now-aborted vacation itinerary.

"I'm not going to Rio."

"What?"

"My father bailed on me. Some last-minute business deal fell through." 

"Then why are you still headed to the airport?"

"Luka called me."

"From the Congo?"

"Yeah. They're shorthanded…and all of my paperwork is on file, I've had my shots…I'm catching a 10:30 flight to JFK. And then it's on to London and Johannesburg from there."

"I thought you changed your mind about going…"

"I did…but it was just one of those split second decisions. Hearing the frustration and desperation on Luka's end. And thinking about where I am. I still can't get my arms around the idea that Gamma's gone, I'm trying to juggle all of these Foundation duties, I was having a lousy shift…"

I can almost hear her mentally process my sudden revelations.  "Does Abby know?"

"Yeah. Sort of." My voice was barely audible.

"Carter, she told me she hasn't spoken to you in a week. Is she one of the things you're running from?"

"Nothing's right here."

"Is that what you told her?"

"Pretty much."

"You told her you were off to play Jungle Doc?"

I paused and rubbed my eyes, remembering the haunted look on her face when she spit the words out at me. _"You're going, right…to Africa?"_

"I didn't say I wasn't."

"So that explains it."

"Explains what?"

"Why she was so full of piss and vinegar last night. Pratt swore he saw her spitting nails."

For a fleeting moment, my heart ached at the thought of the toll the events of the past few weeks must have taken on her. Had taken on both of us. Two halves no longer whole.

"You'll help pull her through this?"

"I think that's something only you can do, John." Like most people, she only used my first name for added inflection. So I knew she was serious.

"It's not just me – it's Eric and Maggie and all the baggage they bring to her table. She's given up smoking, trying to reconnect with AA…"

"Trust me, it's you. Look, I'm not sure how much of this I'm supposed to tell you without breaking every rule of feminista solidarity, but you have her right where you want her. She's hopelessly, head-over-heels in love with you. Or at least as much as she'll ever allow herself to be." I can hear her running tap water and pouring it into the coffeemaker. 

"But she thinks she's lost you. And what's even sadder, she thinks she deserves it. Because she can never be the person you want her to be."

Stung by her words, I watch as the cabbie pulls up in front of the American Airlines terminal and presses the meter to total the fare.

"Look, I can't deal with any of this right now. I'll figure it out when I get back. I gotta go. We just pulled into O'Hare."

There's a pregnant pause on the other end and then a rush of words, just above a whisper.

"Take care of yourself, Carter. Safe travels…" 

_* * * * *_

_You never knew what I loved in you_

_I don't know what you loved in me_

_Maybe the picture of somebody you were hoping_

_I might be_

_Awake again, I can't pretend, and I know I'm alone_

_And close to the end of the feeling we've known_

* * * * *

I turn away from the airport kiosk, depositing my purchases – enough reading material and junk food to ply me straight through to Johannesburg – in my backpack. I gaze up at the bank of screens dedicated to flight departures, checking the one for American Airlines Flight 734 to New York.

11:05 a.m.

Delayed a half hour.

I check my watch.

9:55 a.m.

Might as well go sit by the gate.

I pull my ticket from the inside pocket of my denim jacket and head for the security checkpoint. True to her word, Katie had taken care of everything, even managing to snag me a window seat for the flight to Kennedy, though I'd be roughing it in coach.

As I steadily make my way toward the snaking line in front of the metal detectors, I hear my name called in the distance.

"John?"

My eyes dart around a sea of unfamiliar faces in assorted stages of leave-taking.

Must be someone else.

"Carter!"

There was no mistaking this time.

Had to be.

Her.

I stop in mid-stride, pausing momentarily before slowly turning around. To the casual observer, competing expressions clamor for attention across my face. Annoyance. Confusion. Surprise.

I shake my head and blink rapidly several times. "Abby?"

She laughs a little and rolls her eyes, taking a few steps towards me. "Forget what I look like already?"

I frown, closing the distance between us. "What are you doing here?"

Her smile fades. She glances around the crowded terminal and back up at me.

"Isn't it obvious?"

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. "Abby…" I throw her a pleading look. Didn't she know how hard it was already? Why I couldn't bring myself to say goodbye?

"I actually went to your apartment, you know. I wanted to give you this." She holds out a duffel bag. "It's um…It's got t-shirts and socks and stuff. Things you had at my place. I thought you might need them."

I stare at her for a moment before reaching out and taking the bag. "Thanks." I punctuate my appreciation with a smile. 

We stand in awkward silence for what seems like an eternity, each pondering the other, weighing our next move. Another flight announcement blares through the terminal and I cast a nervous glance over my shoulder toward the security checkpoint.

"I should, uh…"

"It's been delayed a half-hour." She unleashes the words hastily and I think back to my conversation with Susan. 

_She's right where you always wanted her to be._

No, not yet.

I turn back towards her. "I know."

"So…"

I raise my eyebrows. "So?"

She bites her lip. "So, can we talk?"

I pause for a moment. "I don't think there's much for us to say."

"Oh." 

Not the magic words she wanted to hear. I can see her eyes grow glassy. "Well, um…then I guess I should just…" She turns on her heel and begins to walk in the other direction. 

"Wait, Abby!"

She stops dead in her tracks as I catch up with her and place a hand on her shoulder, sending shock waves through my fingertips. "I can't take this."

She draws in a shaky breath and nods. "Neither can I." She turns around and looks up at me. "I get it."

I shake my head as it dawns on me that we're talking about two completely different things. "No, um…this." I hold up the bag. "It doesn't have a tag. I can't take it on the plane."

Her gaze drops to the duffel. "Oh. OK." She reaches up and takes it from me, her hand lingering on top of mine.

"Did you come to convince me to stay?"

She takes a step back and raises her eyes to meet mine. "And if I did? Would it have mattered?"

"Abby…"

"That's what I thought. You've made up your mind, Carter, and there's not much I can do now. I get it. So go. Run away."

My expression hardens. "I'm not running away."

"Really? Because it sure looks like you are."

"Well, if that's what it looks like to you…maybe I'm taking a chapter from the Book of Abby."

Her eyes grow wide, surprised at first blush over how much the truth does sting. "Oh that's rich, Carter." She laughs bitterly. "Real rich."

I look at her in apparent disbelief, my head slowly swaying from side to side.

She rolls her eyes towards the ceiling and draws in a sharp breath, releasing it slowly. She squares her jaw and lowers her gaze.

"I came looking for you this morning. When I went to your apartment and found out you'd left, I thought I'd lost my chance. But something compelled me to keep trying." She shakes her head. "I don't know. Maybe I just wanted to have the last word. Maybe I wanted to apologize. Maybe I just wanted to say good luck. But right now…all I want to do is walk away."

"So why haven't you?"

"Truthfully?" She tips her head and ponders the question for a moment. "I don't know."

I purse my lips together and nod in silent agreement.

"Why haven't you?"

I shake my head sadly and shrug. "I guess we're at an impasse."

She closes her eyes. "I guess we are."

"Abby."

She opens her eyes.

I step closer, hovering just above her and lower my voice. "I'm not going to lie and tell you that you haven't hurt me. And I'm not going to stand her and say that everything is going to be all right. I can't do that anymore."

She dips her head and nods slowly before I can finish. "It's just…I don't want to be here right now."

"I know." She leans forward on her toes and rests her forehead lightly against my chest.

I sigh and pull away. 

"Abby, look at me."

She licks her lips and lifts her gaze to meet mine, two soulful brown puddles poised to overflow.

"I have to go."

She spreads her arms wide at her sides, in a gesture of silent surrender. "Then go."

I stare at her for a few moments longer before turning toward my intended destination, my backpack slung over my shoulder, the weight of the world seemingly inside, balled up in a tight cocoon.

Was this how I wanted to leave things between us?

I stop in line and glance back over my shoulder in her direction. My chest constricts as I watch her cover her mouth to muffle a sob.

_I didn't mean to leave like that…_

I promised myself that night she deserved better next time.

_What do I have to do to get through to you?_

And then I'd done it all over again.

Time for a three-peat.

She's almost at the escalators by the time I can catch up with her.

I tug on her shoulder. "Abby." 

She worms sharply away from my grasp and forges ahead. 

I pull again, more firmly this time, spinning her around to face me. 

She opens her mouth, poised to protest, but I shush her with a gentle finger to the lips. I shake my head and take her tear-streaked face between my hands, kissing her softly. She closes her eyes and brings her arms up around my shoulders, dropping the duffel bag behind me. Her hands find their way to the back of my head and she inches up on her toes, drawing us further into the kiss. My thumbs massage gentle circles on her cheeks, mingling with errant tears. She whimpers when I pull back a moment later, my hands moving down to her shoulders. I lean forward once more, resting my lips on her forehead.

"Wait for me."

Right where you are.

* * * * * 

_How long have I been sleeping_

_How long have I been drifting alone through the night_

_How long have I been dreaming I could make it right_

_If I closed my eyes and tried with all my might_

_To be the one you need_

_Awake again, I can't pretend, and I know I'm alone_

_And close to the end of the feeling we've known_

* * * * * 

I gaze across the sleepy sunrise as the plane begins its descent into Heathrow. The first leg of my journey had been pleasantly uneventful, allowing for some time to get caught up on my sleep, my junk food quotient, and current events. 

A chance to put everything else out of my mind except the medical challenges that awaited me in the far flung African jungle.

My eyes fall upon the familiar notebook that rests open on the seat tray in front of me, both sides of the page filled with my tired scrawl.

Who was I kidding?

Even at 35,000 feet there was no escaping her.

**_Pivotal Moment #7: Sitting on the loading dock outside The Lava Lounge_**

_May 5, 2003_

_Abby –_

_The other night, the night of the eclipse, outside in the ambulance bay, I told you about my MI patient who didn't make it and how I had failed him in his last request for pen and paper to write a note to his kids as he lay dying._

_Since then, all I can think about is what words I would choose if faced with a similar situation_

_What would I say to you on my deathbed?._

_And then I look down at this tattered notebook and think how lucky I am to already been given a chance to tell part of my story._

_Our story._

_When I selected these journals, I didn't notice the quote that appeared on the front until the sales clerk at Border's pointed it out to me._

**_"Grow old along with me. The best is yet to be."_**

_At the time, I thought it was prophetic._

_Now, I'm not so sure anymore._

_Whether our best days are really ahead of us._

_Or only behind us._

_You're probably wondering why I skipped so many other pivotal moments in jumping from my grandfather's funeral to the night we reminisced about Mark Greene and a life cut short._

_Our fateful conversation by the river when I thought you were still hung up on Luka, not ready to make the kind of commitment I wanted from you._

_The day you caught me kissing Susan in the lounge. The same day you tried to foil my inevitable encounter with Paul Sobricki and I turned down your offer of coffee and pie. _

_The snowy day we spent inside a classroom at a sexual harassment seminar._

_The morning I came to your apartment with dried flowers in hand and saw the evidence of your slip off the wagon. _

_Part of me still isn't sure why I've tried to gloss over these moments_

_Maybe it's because that night on the loading dock was when I started to believe again that we had a future._

_That someday there could be an "us"._

_Funny isn't it how it took a tragedy like Mark's death to offer a sobering lesson in the preciousness of life._

_Much as I wanted to toast Mark as the irreplaceable friend and colleague that he was to so many, I mostly went to the Lava Lounge to hunt you down, all the while dreading what I might find there._

_Standing in the doorway, coming up behind you, watching you smoking that cigarette, you confirmed my worst fears, determined to send six years of sobriety to hell in a hand basket._

_It would have been so easy to slip into the soft folds of your sexual advances as we exchanged steamy banter and your hand touched my face._

_But deep down, I knew that wasn't how I wanted our first time to be. And I had more important things on my mind. Like getting you to a meeting and trying to help you get things back on track._

_The addict in me knew that you had to do it – had to want it – for yourself._

_But the guy in me who's always been so desperately in love with you couldn't help himself._

_Sitting at Doc Magoo's, lingering over our hot fudge sundaes, watching the sun come up, having you open up about your relapse and seeing your reluctance ease at the prospect of attending a meeting, I really thought we turned a corner that night._

_I know how hard the road has been since then and how palpable the lure of the bottle's magical elixir has been with all we've been through these past few months._

_Stay strong, Abby. Even when I'm not there to lean on._

_Do it for you._

_I'm not sure I'll be in a better place when I return._

_I'm not sure what there'll be for me to come home to._

_Or what that will mean for us._

_Still, I meant what I said._

_Wait for me._

_And we'll see where the next step takes us._

_Yours,_

_John_

* * * * *

_How long have I been sleeping_

_How long have I been drifting alone through the night_

_How long have I been running for that morning flight_

_Through the whispered promises and the changing light_

_Of the bed where we both lie_

_Late for the sky_

* * * * * *


	15. Leave a Light on for Me

**Title: Leave a Light on for Me**

Description: Post-ep for "Kisangani." Fifteenth (and final!) chapter in "The Long Way," a series of Season 9 post-eps beginning with "First Snowfall." Carter's POV.

Author: KenzieGal (a/k/a It's Always Something)

Disclaimer: Carter and Abby do not belong to me – they are the property of the wise and wealthy minds of TPTB at Warner Brothers. No copyright infringement intended.

Spoilers: Everything during Season 9 up to and including "Kisangani." (#9-22)

Summary: Carter feels Abby's palpable presence during critical junctures in his two-week stint in the Congo and returns home with renewed determination to make things right.

Parting Shots: This is the last installment in a series of crossover post-eps with Sunni's (a/k/a Lanie) Abby-centric "Reflections" series, the one that raised the bar for an entire genre that followed. Look for her to pick up the story thread in "Night Sessions" (Chapter 20), her post-ep to "Kisangani," which closes the book on "Reflections." Once again, kudos to Lanie for crafting another fabulous crossover scene.

As the train at long last approached the station, I found my post-ep folder littered with a number of unused song titles, many of which I had reserved as possible lyrical inclusions for the finale. Since I had such a hard time deciding among them, I opted to cue up pertinent snippets at the outset of each of this chapter's eight vignettes. As an added treat to this veritable cornucopia of '70s musicians, "Leave a Light on for Me" is bookended by excerpts from Dan Fogelberg's "The Long Way" (from his album "Souvenirs"), a ballad that harkens back to my high school days and the tune that inspired me to write this series.

Song lyrics used (in order of appearance) are from…

_*           The Long Way_, Dan Fogelberg

_*           Africa,_ Toto

_*           Learn to Be Still_, The Eagles

_*           The Girl From Yesterday_, The Eagles

_*           The Rebel Jesus_, Jackson Browne

_*           Peacekeeper,_ Fleetwood Mac

_*           The Girl From Yesterday_, The Eagles

_*           Learn to Be Still,_ The Eagles

_*           The Long Way_, Dan Fogelberg

Please see Author's Notes at end for a final salute to the wonderful cadre of carby aficionados and reviewers who made this exercise such a uniquely gratifying "once upon a time."

* * * * *

_She was lost and I thought I was found_

_Even so I tried to bring her in_

_She was young and I had just begun_

_To learn that even losing men can win_

_We went the long way_

_We went the long way_

_We went the long way_

_Or maybe just the wrong way_

_I'll never know_

* * * * *

**_Day One: Travel_**

Ten hours into the flight, the drone of the engine in the unintelligible night sky offers soothing reassurance as my body presses against the window and I slowly turn the pages of the two-day-old copy of The New York Times I had picked up at Heathrow.

I glance at my watch. By my calculations, allowing room for further ministrations to the international date clock, we'd be arriving in Johannesburg by daybreak.

My seatmate, a nattily dressed gentleman carefully sipping a club soda, tries to strike up polite conversation with me in perfect French.

"Sorry, I don't speak French."

"Long journey." His voice is deep and low as the words barrel out in unfaltering English.

"Yeah, I started yesterday. In Chicago."

"Chicago….Michael Jordan…right." He lets out a laugh and I turn to face him, amused, suddenly starved for idle chitchat.

"Yeah." I suppress a chuckle, almost choking on my gum.

"You going to the Congo on business?"

"I'm a doctor." I fold my newspaper.

"Where will you stay in the capital?"

"I'm not going to Kinshasa. I'm going on to Kisangani."

"Kisangani." He rolls the word around on his tongue, enunciating it more clearly. "In the east." 

I look up, surprised he had heard of such a remote outpost.

"A doctor in Kisangani. You will be busy. Very busy." His voice sounds ominous.

We continue our respectful exchange for a few more minutes, until he gets up to use the lavatory.

I slip the newspaper into the seat pocket in front of me and reach into my backpack, rustling around until I find what I'm looking for. I pull out the spiral journal, by now a familiar appendage to my on-the-run existence. I open it to the last page and stare down at my deliberate scrawl. I had penned the eighth and final entry in the American Airlines' Admirals Club at Heathrow.

I glance out the window and pop another stick of gum into my mouth.

She was out there somewhere.

**_Pivotal Moment # 8: First Kiss_**

_Abby –_

_I'll bet you're wondering why I chose to bookend this, the eighth and final pivotal moment, with the one I chose to start it all._

_It's not as though it's a complete set. _

_So many other moments have dotted the landscape that I wonder if the freeze frames I've selected can aptly capture the sum total of our relationship between these two points._

_Still, I felt I had to draw some lines in the sand._

_For safekeeping._

_So that we would be sure to remember. _

_After all, we are responsible forever for what we have tamed…_

_And herein lies the method to my madness._

_At the outset of this exercise, I came clean on the question of when "it" happened for me._

_Undeniably, unquestionably, unequivocally, up on the roof on a fateful Valentine's Day more than three years ago._

_But as our ever-changing dance unfolded, sometimes a halting minuet, occasionally a saucy rumba, other times a roiling tango, it was lived in the abstract, in the dark reserves of our hidden hearts._

_It never seemed real to me. _

_It never had a face._

_Nor a name._

_Not until the night of the lockdown in trauma yellow, when your lips met mine, and I touched it._

_One chapter ended._

_And another began. _

_Winging my way to Africa, I'm trying hard to wrap my arms around the second series of pivotal moments that followed our first kiss._

_Two weeks held captive in the ER, discovering and exploring boundaries, poking and prodding fledgling emotions._

_Line dancing at Navy Pier._

_A rooftop declaration._

_A question that somehow missed its mark, followed by days of slow unraveling._

_Gamma's death._

_Eric's reappearance._

_A lunar eclipse._

_And a kiss at the airport as the curtain fell on the second act. _

_Is this the end of the line?_

_Or another beginning?_

_How can we be sure?_

_I think I know._

_It's all in these two notebooks._

_Everything we need to figure it out is right in here._

_In yours._

_And in mine._

_To take us there._

_To the next place._

_As soon as I get home._

_We'll find out together._

_Leave a light on for me._

_Yours, _

_John_

* * * * *

_I hear the drums echoing tonight_

_But she hears only whispers of some quiet conversation_

_She's coming in 12:30 flight_

_The moonlit wings reflect the stars that guide me towards salvation_

_I stopped an old man along the way_

_Hoping to find some long forgotten words or ancient melodies_

_He turned to me as if to say, "Hurry boy, it's waiting there for you"_

_It's gonna take me a lot to drag me away from you_

_There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do_

_I bless the rains down in Africa_

_Gonna take some time to do the things we never had_

* * * * * *

**_Day 3: Kisangani_**

I listen to the raspy sounds rumbling from the young boy's chest, his skin flinching, despite the heat, against the icy silver of the stethoscope. 

A French-speaking Congolese nurse named Basinake is my translator du juor. After conversing with the boy's mother, she offers, "He's had a fever for a week."

The boy emits a series of raspy coughs as I complete my examination. "Tell her that he has pneumonia and that we're going to make him better."

I can feel the sweat drip down my back marinating against the light gauze of my shirt, sending a stinging sensation to an area of my lower extremities that had already been pummeled by two days in a cramped airplane, a flimsy cot and an endless sea of patients. I arch my back in a futile attempt to stave off the pain. When that fails, I cup my hands behind my head and twist my body from side to side. 

Still no relief.

As I numbly step around Basinake to tend to my next charge, the boy's frantic mother secretes a low-pitched wail. "Merci, doctor, merci."

The Congolese people are nothing if not unfailingly polite. At this point, three days into my mission, a crash course in the horrors of a medically ravaged nation, it's probably the only thing that stands between my present overwhelmed state and total despair.

For the first time in my life, I feel completely helpless as a doctor, as a healer of the sick. Luka is still off administering a round of immunizations in Matenda, leaving me under the watchful eye of a small tribe of jungle docs to endure my baptism by fire. 

Still, taking my cue from those around me, I soldier on.

"You're welcome."

I meander over to an elderly couple, the man wearily propped up against the wall, a frail woman, her forehead covered by a dark bandana and her face burrowed into his shoulder, slumped against him.

"Hi." I give the gentleman a tight-lipped smile as I squat down in front of him. "Who's sick…you or…"

He pats her hand lovingly.

Instinctively, I reach for her pulse, only to find that there is none. I have to steel myself against recoiling my hand in shock and dismay.

How to break the news to him? I'm flying blind.

Something deep inside of me is working overtime to anesthetize my psyche against the horrors of all that flies in front of me, a seemingly endless succession of sights a thousand times worse than anything that had ever blown through the doors of County General.

"Basinake." My voice morphs into a hardened bark. "This woman is dead." I fold my hands together in silent prayer.

"Papa…" And so begins her translation.

Surprisingly, the man speaks halting English with a gravelly intonation.

"I know. She has been very ill."

Now I'm even more confused.

"Why didn't you tell us she was so sick when she came in…" Still, under the spell of my old mindset, I think that maybe there's something we could have done to save her, that somehow I had failed her.  Both of them.

"She has had AIDS for many months. I did not know where else to go."

I bow my head, overwhelmed by a feeling of emotional destitution as excruciating as any I had ever known.

Haunted by the heartrending image of the man adoringly stroking his wife's limp body as he sob-sings to her in French, I step out into the stifling heat, hoping to catch an intermittent breeze, anything to dull the pain in my gut and the ache in my soul from the surreal scene I had just witnessed.

A scene I sense I'm doomed to witness a thousand times over during my stint here.

Salty tears prick at my eyelids, threatening to commingle with the sweat-soaked grime that covers my face. 

I grieve silently for a woman I had never seen alive, a life cut short, a love silenced.

I picture her laughing, dancing, smiling.

Massaging my back, I tentatively twist my torso from side to side, hoping to assuage the kinks that have crept into my muscles and taken them hostage. Satisfied with the outcome, I relax my body and lean back; turning my face up to the scorching rays emanating from the radiant sky.

I draw a hand up to my forehead to shield my eyes from the familiar image exploding across the firmament.

Suddenly, her face is everywhere, blinding me with its aching simple beauty, teasing me with the hint of a faint, upturned smile. 

For miles and miles, it's all I can see.

All I want to see. 

Amidst the chaos that rules my life.

Like a landmark payday in the rich bank of memory, one I knew I'd be drawing mightily on in the days to come.

* * * * * 

_We are like sheep without a shepherd_

_We don't know how to be alone_

_So we wander 'round this desert_

_And wind up following the wrong gods home_

_But the flock cries out for another_

_And they keep answering that bell_

_And one more starry-eyed messiah_

_Meets a violent farewell – _

_Learn to be still_

_Learn to be still_

* * * * *

**_Day 6: Kisangani _**

I enter what passes for the staff lounge only to be greeted by the sight of Luka massaging his temples and smoking a cigarette, still haunted, as was I, by the aftereffects of the unspeakable multiple traumas we had just witnessed and tried mightily to reverse. 

I'm still haunted by the image of a young boy who I had tried valiantly, but unsuccessfully, to save.

Grabbing a wooden chair, I drag it over across from him and prop the back towards him, leaning my upper body against its rickety frame. The air in the room is thick and close, singed with the unsettling aroma of ash, sweat and sand.

I serve the first volley. "I didn't know you smoked."

"Oh, I don't." He examines the cigarette with exaggerated intensity, apparently fascinated by its inner workings.

I fold my arms across the top of the chair, resting my chin on them.

"When did you get here?" He lobs the conversation back into my court.

"Six days ago." I look at him pointedly. "How much longer are you staying?"

"I don't know. I'm going back to the clinic tomorrow. I have patients there who can't be moved. I came back for some supplies." He grounds his cigarette into a makeshift ashtray, a tiny sardine can peppered with rust.

My head swings around as I hear the door hinge squeak. 

Enter Gillian, a voluptuous nurse from Montreal, almost two weeks into her annual pilgrimage to the bowels of the Congo, a time set aside to repent for her self-described "wanton ways" in the real world. 

She waltzes into the room almost as if on cue, in search of a geometry lesson of the most sensuous variety. I suppress a chuckle envisioning "The Triangle Goes to the Congo," a macabre modern day remake of a vintage Bob Hope-Bing Crosby-Dorothy Lamoure road movie.

She heads over to the table and joins the party, resting her backpack on the chair next to her. I subtly try to gauge Luka's reaction to her arrival, but he continues to romance his cigarette. A lonely stout-bodied moth circles the lantern that sits in the center of the table, drawn to the intoxicating light that ominously envelops its immediate horizon. I rub my head in a vague attempt to ward off the pulsating crescendo that's beginning its dance behind my temples.

"Welcome back." Her tone is terse and laconic as she zips open her bag.

"Thank you." No need to mince words. Luka rubs his eye debonairly and extends his cigarette like a prop, as if rehearsing for an imaginary audience. 

My eyes dart from side to side amused and fascinated as my companions ponder their next move. It ends in a draw with Luka licking his lips before biting down on them and Gillian rising to fetch two bottles of cola from the refrigerator.

Suddenly, it feels like I'm the only other person in the room as she extracts a bottle of vodka from the deep recesses of her knapsack and pours a smattering into two plastic tumblers, more for her, less for me.

"I thought you might be upset about that boy."

"I'm OK."

She smiles as she pops open the soda cap with a bottle opener and pours the dark liquid into each glass. This time, it's more for me, less for her as she pushes my portion toward me. Luka continues his ministrations to the cigarette with a series of perfect smoke rings as I shift in my chair, trying to get a bead on the unsettling silence that casts a pall over our smoke-filled hell.

I grab my glass and raise it to hers in a silent salute. Lifting it to my lips, the unfamiliar taste burns a hole in my throat.

After downing the contents of her lopsided concoction, Gillian lays down her glass with an inflated thud and a pronouncement of the obvious. "I'm exhausted." My eyes follow her as she returns the vodka to her backpack and rises, slinging her precious cargo over her shoulder. Luka's mental whereabouts are still unreadable as ever as I bury my head in my arms, intrigued by the evening's unfolding drama. 

But she's not done with us yet. 

With one fell swoop, she truncates the tense ambiance with a startling proposition. "I'm going to bed and uh…I hope someone will join me." Halfway across the room, she turns around one last time as if to savor the mental image of two men blown away in a forever freeze frame.

Suddenly it's just the two of us.

"How's Abby?" 

Ah, Abigail Lockhart makes an appearance. Still between us. Front row center.

A waft of smoke suddenly jars me back to the present. He seems to be testing me somehow by tossing her name into the mix, clearly marking his sexual territory, stretching the boundaries of the triangle into an scintillating parallelogram.

Although Gillian's offer seemed largely to be lobbed at Luka, she had clearly reveled in the provocative sparks that asphyxiated the air between us, picking up on the kinetic tension that invisibly radiated between her two would-be suitors, exploiting it to her advantage. Not having been privy to whatever had transpired between them before Luka's pilgrimage to Matenda and my subsequent arrival, it's hard to guess her ultimate motive, but I sense that my presence somehow gave her the opening she craved to pique Luka's interest and get him right where she wanted him.

"_Look, I'm not sure how much of this I'm supposed to tell you without breaking every rule of feminista solidarity, but you have her right where you want her."_

I mentally swat Susan's words away like an annoying insect as they suddenly loop through my head.

For some reason, though, I feel the need to brandish my enduring fidelity.

"I didn't do anything with Gillian – I swear."

He stares at me in obvious amusement. He's clearly enjoying our strange little verbal tête-à-tête. "So you don't mind if I…"

"No." Make that hell no.

He stands and grinds out his cigarette, saddened by the sight of its crushed remains. 

I feel the need to have the last word. "Knock yourself out."

"See you in the morning." His fingers linger briefly on my back.

I raise my glass to my forehead, a cooling elixir for the longest ten minutes in recent memory. 

I sit upright in my chair and gaze up at the ceiling where a group of gnarly moths have congregated pondering their next move. I close my eyes, trying to instill my lifeless limbs with the limberness required to make their way back to my lonely cot. When I open them, the moths have once again embraced the light. I remember reading somewhere that even though they might be eaten, it's the visual impression of a deeper darkness beyond the light that draws the moths in.

And, just as I knew I would, staring at them melting their bodies against the lantern's scorched glass, drowning in inquisitiveness, all I could see was her face.

* * * * * 

_It really wasn't sad the way they said goodbye _

_Or maybe it just hurt so bad she couldn't cry_

_He packed his things, walked out the door and drove away_

_And she became the girl from yesterday_

_He took a plane across the sea to some foreign land_

_She stayed at home and tried so hard to understand_

_How someone who had been so close could be so far away_

_And she became the girl from yesterday_

* * * * * 

**_Day 11: Matenda _**

Trapped in a whirlpool of suspended reality somewhere between wholesale watchfulness and a catnap, I feel my torso fitfully shift its weight on the creaky old cot, searching for a comfort zone. I involuntarily swat an insect of underdetermined origin through the thin protective sheer of the mosquito netting that envelops me. 

Despite the burgeoning toll the ordeal was wreaking on my body, slumber had thus far eluded me tonight, especially now in the unfamiliar surroundings of the makeshift immunization clinic in Matenda. If possible, the heat here seems even more oppressive than in Kisangani, where the sleeping quarters had occasionally been treated to gentle middle-of-the-night breezes.

Eyes still closed, I tiredly resist the increasing consciousness that begins to seep through my body. 

To thwart the process, my mind replays a mental montage of faces, which had peeked out from behind lines that stretched several city blocks. Congolese children in all shapes and sizes, fear dancing in their eyes as they bravely stuck out malnourished arms, trailed by grateful family members incessantly murmuring "merci," hopelessly dazzled by the endless possibilities of the western world. 

And there I sat, a white, sweaty messiah with a syringe and a dream, sent from a far-off land, attempting to heal and soothe them in woeful French.

A precious few would make it out alive.

But, to the vast majority, the damage had already been done. They wouldn't be so lucky.

Medicine men with our fingers stuck in the dike.

Who were we kidding pretending to save them?

I had said as much to Luka afterwards as I had brought two ice cold beers to the lakeside knoll where he sat perched, deep in thought, mesmerized by the sounds of nearby gunfire.

_"Sounds close."_

_"Yeah, a mile, maybe two."_

_"Pertussis and we don't have anything stronger than amoxicillin. Did you tell that boy's father that we could save him?"_

_"We can."_

_"Whopping cough's gonna eat that amoxicillin for lunch. He's going to die. Die from a disease that we could wipe out with a ten dollar course of erythromycin …"_

_"We vaccinated two hundred children today. When was the last time you saved two hundred lives in an afternoon, huh?"_

As Luka's words ring through my head, they collide with a juxtaposition of eerily similar nouns and verbs, filed away in a nearby reservoir of thought, triggering a rash of suppressed memories.

Suddenly, all I can hear is the sound of her voice, soft and sultry in the spring night air.

_"How many lives do you think he saved?"_

And the loneliness tears me apart, ripping through my gut, prickling my loins, sending shivers of fear and trepidation down my spine as I brace myself for another day without her.

Reflexively, I reach out my forefinger to touch her imaginary face, trying desperately to close the distance between us. As my hand gropes through the darkness, it knocks into a bedside lantern, illuminating the room.

There would be no more sleep to be had tonight.

In the far off distance, my ears unexpectedly fixate on the strains of a mournful ballad and the low sounds of hushed conversation. After disentangling myself from the clutches of the cocoon-like netting, I wander outside toward the medical tent, wiping the sleep out of my eyes and rubbing my hands together.

The tune was unmistakable now. 

Willie Nelson's "Willow Weep For Me."

The last song I had ever expected to hear piping through eastern Africa.

_Sad as I can be,_

_Hear me willow and weep for me._

_Whisper to the wind,_

_And say that love has sinned_

_To leave my heart a breaking_

_And making a moan,_

_Murmur to the night,_

_To hide her starry light,_

_So none will find me sighing_

_And crying, all alone._

Patrique, a fellow physician, ambles toward me, offering me a drink.

I don't answer, too enthralled by the sight of the medical tent. It's been transformed into a makeshift nightclub, replete with a dance floor where Charles, another doctor, dances with Basinake while Luka and Gillian huddle closely together, slowly swaying to the music, one hand on his shoulder while he rubs her arm. 

"Willie Nelson?" I smile goofily.

"Charles went to college in Texas."

My eyes are riveted to the starry-eyed image of Gillian gazing up into Luka's eyes with unbridled hunger. I'm charmed and deeply touched by this little bit of normalcy amidst the chaos. 

Now, Gillian's cheek is pressed to Luka's shoulder, her arm reaching up so she can fondle his neck. His cheek rests against her hair, and he's stroking her upper arm. They're barely breathing, much less moving.

I'm consumed by a feeling of complete and utter longing, my body gripped by a lust so flagrant it reaches up and presses against my insides. I have to shift my stance a little to steady myself.

Where was she at this very moment?

Was she thinking about me?

Or had she already written me off, wiping the slate clean with an invisible eraser etched across the star laden sky?

_"You ever take dance classes?"_

_"No. Have you?"_

_"Uh huh. Yeah. Actually I have a few moves."_

_"I'm sure you do."_

_"Care to give it a whirl?"_

_"Nah, I don't know."_

_"C'mon. Just follow me."_

_"I'm not sure that I can."_

_"I've got you." _

As the song ends, Luka languidly dips Gillian, much to her surprise and delight. It's a snapshot so rife with courtly, quixotic charm, so uncannily out of character for my dark and brooding one-time romantic archrival, that I respond with a chivalrous gesture of my own, an exaggerated grin and bow, as if to request the pleasure of the next dance.

My gaze is still fixed on the star-crossed duo as I straighten up and they continue to shuffle their feet, oblivious to their surroundings.

Until an explosion rocks the heavens and illuminates the sultry sky with a fireball of light, leaving us little choice but to belly-flop onto the ground, waiting for the attack to subside and a chance to assess the damage. 

* * * * *

_But pardon me if I have seemed_

_To take the tone of judgment_

_For I've no wish to come between_

_This day and your enjoyment_

_In a life of hardship and of earthly toil_

_There's a need for anything that frees us_

_So I bid you pleasure and I bid you cheer_

_From a heathen and a pagan_

_On the side of the rebel Jesus_

* * * * *

**_Day 13: Matenda_**

A labyrinth of emotions swell inside my chest as I stare up into the barrel of the gun that sits cocked in my captor's hand. 

I can feel my knees begin to buckle under the scorching rock-tinged earth and my arms cramp from their position behind my head, as if I'm about to do sit-ups instead of take my chances at the mercy of the rebel Mai Mai cabal.

I close my eyes and watch the whole cast of my life parade before them – grade school teachers, summer camp bunkmates, nosey neighbors, and a host of people I hadn't thought much about in years – peering at me in wide-eyed wonder, almost like they're bearing witness to the adventures of a hapless extra who's found himself permanently sentenced to the wrong movie set.

As I squint up into the blinding light, my heart thudding wildly, I search the sky for a sign, a remnant of hope, anything to believe in the rock-ribbed clarity of faith that has temporarily deserted me.

A sign that she's still there.

Waiting up for me.

With the light on.

But try as hard as I might, I can't quite delve deep enough in the reservoir of memory to give her a bird's eye view of the unfolding drama.

The fiery light partially obscures a familiar profile that I can't quite place as his compatriot jams his gun to my forehead. 

An exchange ensues, their words encased in a torrent of French that pierces the tense standoff.

I struggle to find my voice, directing my inquiry toward Patrique who kneels beside me, his body slumped in similar formation. "What's he say?" 

"That you tried to save his brother. That you tried for a long time."

Suddenly, I remember. The boy whose heart I had massaged in a last-ditch effort to save him the night Luka had returned to Kisangani.

Unfortunately, I had failed.

And it looks like I'm well on my way to meeting a similar fate.

I peer back up at the sky as the sun attempts to extricate itself from behind a cloud cover, searching for her face.

Still nothing.

A child-like voice pierces the thick hissing wall of silence that resonates in my ears.

"Hello."

"Hi." I'm touched by his attempt to address me in my native tongue.

The boy nods.

My eyes flicker, stunned by my startling reversal of fortune, as I feel the soldier release the gun barrel from my temple, but not before leaving an imprint, whether real or imagined, that I would carry with me to the end of my days.

"Merci." The boy's tone is contrite and rimmed with a note of finality.

"You're welcome." I offer a nod of gratitude, my blank stare belying the actions of my still-thudding heart.

* * * * *

_We make all our suns the same_

_Every one will suffer the fire we've made_

_They all explode just the same_

_And there's no going back on the plans we've made_

_Peacekeeper take your time_

_Wait for the dark of night_

_Soon all the suns will rise_

_Peacekeeper don't tell why_

_Don't be afraid to fight_

_Love is the sweet surprise_

* * * * *

**_Day 14: Matenda _**

I unwrap a piece of gum and pop it into my mouth as Charles and I wait in the van for Luka and Gillian to finish their last round of goodbyes.

I can't help but watch them locked in a steamy embrace; his lips tenderly mingling with a tangle of hair and what I can only surmise are her salty tears. 

Staring at his profile, I know I'll never look at him the same way. 

Not after yesterday.

Not after the soldier who had spared my life retraced his steps and jostled Luka and Gillian to the ground.

Not after three gunshots rang out behind him, falling an enemy soldier execution-style.

Not after, failing miserably to compose myself, my heart laid bare by the experience, I had looked him squarely in the eye.

And all I had found was steely nerve and a bulls-eye calm.

Fear seemed the farthest thing from his being.

Finally, their bodies disengage. Luka rubs her cheek affectionately, but Gillian will have none of it, ripping his hand from hers as she stalks off toward the waiting vehicle. I get out, letting her slide into the seat next to me and then climb back in, grabbing the window and looping my hand through the opening.

"What should I tell Weaver?" The gum feels comforting between my teeth. I'm suddenly confronted by a mental image of Abby blowing bubbles at Wrigley Field. I wonder if she's still managed to lay off the nicotine.

"Whatever you want." He shrugs, hands protruding on hips.

I kick at the ground and nod my head. "Tell her you're coming back?"

Luka opens his mouth to answer, thinks better of it and closes it, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head. "I don't know."

I wonder if I'll ever see him again. If anyone at County ever would.

"Don't do anything stupid." 

Like that's enough to stop his death wish. I climb in the van.

He smiles widely, his eyes twinkling. "Like what?"

"Like getting yourself killed." I slam the door shut.

I tap the window as the van pulls away.

As the rush of countryside dabs at her glassy eyes, Gillian turns around for one last look, waving through the back window as Luka's image shrinks in the distance, before emitting a low, painful sob.

She rests her head on my shoulder and I absently wrap an arm around her. But the weight of her watchfulness is too much to bear and she tumbles into my lap with a graceful thump. I place a hand on her head and clutch the other, burrowing my palm into hers.

Suddenly it hits me.

I was going home.

Wherever that was.

And whatever I would find there. 

* * * * *

_She doesn't know what's right_

_She doesn't know what's wrong_

_She only knows the pain that comes from waiting for so long_

_And she doesn't count the teardrops_

_That she's cried while he's away_

_Because she knows deep in her heart_

_That he'll be back someday_

* * * * *

**_Day 15: Chicago_**

The water cascades in even-tempered torrents against the windshield as the cab sails over rain-drenched pavement, making a rhythmic whooshing sound that's like music to my ears in the darkened night. 

I glance at myself in the driver's rear view mirror, hoping the shower and quick change act I had pulled in the Admiral's Club at Heathrow had erased some of the stubble and grime that had followed me like unwanted souvenirs from the first leg of my journey. Hell knows it couldn't expunge the nagging terror that still cloaks my heart like death.

As the cabbie pulls up to the curb, I quickly pull a few bills from the pocket of my denim jacket and politely thank him for his patience when I hastily scuttled my original destination midway through the trip from O'Hare.

Hauling my gear up the steps, I eyeball the second floor window.

Pitch black.

My excitement is tempered by a gnawing uneasiness that begins to second-guess my split second decision as I wonder what I'll find behind close doors.

Other than simply the absence of light.

I recall the conversation that had steered me here as the cab had circled the shores of Lake Michigan.

_"Chaos theory?"_

_"Yeah, a virus mutates in the Congo, we evacuate an ER in Chicago, Romano gets his arm cut off."_

_"You lost me…"_

_"Seemingly random events, all part of a larger equation."_

Breathing deeply, I enter the apartment building and mount the staircase, prepared to take my chances.

I remove the shiny sliver of the key from my wallet, fresh from its journey halfway around the world, and slip it into the lock. I give the knob a gentle tug as the door squeaks open, silently praying that the chain is unlatched. 

It is.

Perhaps she was expecting company?

My eyes adjust to the incandescent blue-black beams from an outdoor street light that wafts through the room to greet me.

I notice the bedroom door is slightly ajar. Dropping my bags, I tentatively tiptoe towards it, crossing over the threshold and rounding the edge of the mattress to the side of the bed where she snuggles on her right side, mouth upturned demurely, curled in the child-like innocence of sleep. 

Before my eyes can fully drink her in, they're captivated by the images on her pillow.

Butterflies.

_"You know a butterfly flaps its wing in China and creates a tornado halfway around the world."_

_"Are you hot?"_

_"I'm just saying there's an inherent unpredictability about everything: evolution, life, love, relationships…"_

_"So what am I? The butterfly or the tornado?"_

Which one, indeed?

On one hand, toil, toil, work and trouble. 23/7.

On the other, in the day's final hour, without a doubt, the sweetest feeling I would ever know. 

I reach my hand into the satin darkness, touching her face with my forefinger, tracing an imaginary line down the side of her cheek. Its finely chiseled contours are no longer the object of my fantasies, an image amorphously embossed across the African sky; this is for real, this is genuine, this is unavoidable.

This is my destiny.

Time for the cards to fall into place; time to pick and choose.

_"No, you're chaos in general."_

_"Thanks."_

_"No, I'm just saying, you're chaos to me…the unknown…I'm chaos to you…"_

_"You are hardly chaos, Carter."_

_"I'm just saying there's a risk in anything you do, right? But don't you want to stack the odds in your favor?"_

My eye trains itself on her bare arm peeking up from under the blanket that's tossed casually around her waist. I'm overwhelmed by the sudden urge to run my tongue across the chaste hollow of her throat, coming to rest on her exposed shoulder and a little dent, scalloped in the bone, that dips languorously beneath moon-kissed skin.

Instead, I lean over and kiss her forehead, my lips lingering just above her brow, lost in her scent.

Lowering my body to the foot of her bed, I look upward for a sign, anything to tell me we were going to be okay.

I gaze back at her sleeping form.

And suddenly it hits me.

Her face.

Instead of its usual position tucked under the corner of her pillow, nestled in the crook of my shoulder, it's turned in the opposite direction, just beneath the window against which tiny droplets of rain continue to fall.

Turned toward the light of the street lamp.

_"I mean, I'm drawn to you, it's kind of that simple. I've been drawn to you for two years, but chaos always seems to rule and I don't want it to rule. I want to know where it's taking me."_

Home.

Home was wherever we were.

* * * * *

_There are so many contradictions_

_In all the messages we send_

_We keep asking_

_How do I get out of here?_

_Where do I fit in?_

_Though the world is torn and shaken_

_Even if your heart is breaking'_

_It's waiting for you to awaken_

_And someday you will –_

_Learn to be still_

_Learn to be still_

* * * * *

**_Day 16: Chicago _**

I emerge from the bathroom, clad in the last clean t-shirt and boxer shorts from the bottom of my duffel bag, my muscles and joints tingly and invigorated by the afterglow of a thirty-minute shower.

There's a light on in the living room.

"Abby?" I call out her name before I can make an appearance on the outside chance she doesn't know she has unexpected company. 

I stop suddenly when I see her lying sprawled on the couch and lean heavily against the doorframe, casually rubbing my hand across my stomach and pretending that my presence is the most innocuous thing in the world.

I rack my brains for an icebreaker, a witty quip to toss into the awkward air that hangs between us.

I come up empty.

"Why are you sitting out here?"

She shrugs, staring down at her hands, then drawing her head upwards. 

I tepidly take her nonchalant gestures as my cue to enter the room rather than head for the door. 

Suddenly, she bolts upright and I stop dead in my tracks a few feet away from her, searching her face for a signal that she wants me to stay. I'm rewarded with a lopsided smile and a gentle nod as she pulls a blanket away from her feet and I ease myself onto the cushion next to her, taking the hem of the sheet that rests under it and draping it across my lap. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot her journal lying facedown on the coffee table in front of us.

"When did you get in?"

"Midnight." My mind is still transfixed on the well-worn notebook, suddenly curious about the sentiments that lie pressed between its pages. 

"Why didn't you wake me?"

There's an imploring drone in her voice as it begs the question and I begin to sense that something fragile may be slipping between us. 

Instinctively, I reach out to grab hold of something to steady the moment, sneaking across her knees to drag a hand into my lap, intertwining her fingers with mine.

My tone is conciliatory, barely more than a whisper. "You looked so peaceful, I didn't want to interrupt your dreaming."

"I wouldn't have minded." Her eyes bear into mine, and she smiles. "Really." 

I offer her an exhausted grin before taking a deep breath.

Time to face the music.

Time to come clean.

Time to tempt fate.

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

"It's just that – "

"Carter, don't."

"Don't what?"

She shakes her head. "Don't…don't do this. No excuses, okay? Not tonight."

I stare at her, flummoxed for a brief moment before emitting a soft chuckle.

She cocks an eyebrow. "What?"

"How do you know that's what I was going to say?" I smile knowingly.

She bites her lip, trying to suppress a grin of her own. She shrugs, feigning innocence. "Three years of experience?"

I drop my hand, opting instead to wrap an arm underneath her legs, swinging them across my lap. She shifts her position on the couch to face me. I smooth the blanket out around the two of us, turning my attention back toward her. She reaches a hand up to my face, gently grazing her fingers over my unshaven cheek.

"So…"

I smile again and lean over. "So…"

She draws her body into mine, until our faces rest mere inches apart. Reverently, I loll one hand across her back as the other slides its way up her thigh. Despite the emotional ignominies of the past month, our bodies still bristle with surprising synchronicity.

I want to tell her everything. Already, there've been too many words unspoken between us, enough to last several lifetimes. 

"Abby?"

Her eyes flick upwards, melting into my gaze.

I open my mouth to speak, but the question slips just beyond my grasp, lost in the gentle exploration of fingerprints that cover my face, finally coming to rest at the corners of my upturned mouth. I blink once, then twice, as she feather dusts my cheekbones and I feel a slow rise between my shorts. Her fingers travel up the bridge of my nose, across my eyebrows and to my hairline. She draws in a shaky breath as she threads her fingers through my hair, finding that spot on the back of my neck where she knows her hands fit perfectly.

I lean forward and sigh, resting my forehead against her head. The spot where the gun had been pointed was still sensitive to the touch.

"Abby…"

She licks her lips and whispers, "Welcome home."

There's a low groan in my throat as I grip her thigh, squeezing it a few times before sliding my hand up her body to cup her cheek.

"God, I missed you."

She laughs lightly. "Good."

I draw a line across her jaw. "I should have woken you up."

She rolls her eyes playfully. "I'm awake now."

"Are you sure?"

She thinks for a moment and smiles. "Well, if I'm not, this is some kind of cruel dream…"

It's my turn to chuckle. She leans into my embrace, her hands tightening their hold around my neck. 

"John?"

"Hmm?" I close my eyes. My contentment is evidenced by the widening smile creeping across my lips.

"Tell me about Africa?"

I can feel an involuntary intake of breath hammer against my chest as the smile quickly disappears and my eyes flutter open. I slowly pull away. 

She frowns in confusion. "What is it?"

I glance over at her and then down at the blanket. "Not now."

Her eyes remain fixed on me as she lets out an exasperated sigh. "Fine." She rests her back against the side of the couch and examines her fingernails.

I shift toward her again, plopping a hand down against hers, her fingers warm to the touch.

Where to start? I felt stymied, at a loss for words. I needed time to sort it all out, to probe my feelings, make sense of what I seen, of what I had changed.

And what had changed me.

"I'm just…tired and…not ready yet."

She looks at me through naked eyes as their weary counterparts plead for understanding. She bites her lip and nods quietly as I flash her a look of gratitude and settle back against the cushions. An uncomfortable silence fills the room.

She makes the first move, lifting her legs from their perch across my lap. I watch intently as she stands and grabs the blanket, tossing it toward the other end of the couch.

"I'm going back to bed."

I stare up at her. "Want some company?"

She offers her hand out to me. "I was hoping…"

I smile and take it gladly, giving it a playful squeeze. As I slowly rise off the couch, my eyes once again rest on the journal lying on the coffee table. She squeezes my hand to divert my attention, winking and turning around, leading us both back to the bedroom.

I pause in the doorway, looping my arms around her shoulders, pulling her backwards into my chest. From there they fall into the soft curve of her waist as I graze my lips against her ear.

"Been doing a little writing?" I whisper the words into the curve of her shoulder, still thinking about having my way with her sweet spot.

She bites her lip and smiles. "Maybe a little…"

"Hmm…" I raise my head again, planting a soft kiss on her cheek. "You'll have to show me someday…"

She twists around in my arms and looks up at me.

"Well…" She smiles coyly, drawing a line up my arm. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours…"

Before I can respond, she snakes one hand around my neck while the other grasps the front of my t-shirt, dragging me down to her level. Her mouth finds mine a moment later as I clench her hips and pull her towards me. Her tongue begs entry and is warmly received, sending electric pinpricks skyrocketing into the shadows.

"I missed you. So much."

I can't quite tell where her voice begins and mine ends.

Hopefully I won't have to.

Looking out across the room, I see the first mid-blue touches of dawn blink through the panes of the bedroom window.

The journey isn't over yet, not by any stretch of the imagination.

Looks like we'll take the long way.

Again.

It doesn't matter much to me.

It can take forever as far as I'm concerned.

What's important is where we are.  

Here.

In the light of day.

As good a place to start again as any.

* * * * *

_Overnight we were shown the light_

_Neither of us knew to look away_

_So we burned and far too late we learned_

_That lifetimes can't be lived out in a day_

_So, goodbye_

_At least we made the try_

_Something can be said for love that's pure_

_If and when we ever try again_

_One thing will be known to us for sure_

_We'll go the long way_

_We'll go the long way_

_We'll go the long way_

_Or maybe just the wrong way_

_I'll never know_

_I'll never know_

* * * * *

**_Author's Notes_**

I recently opened a fortune cookie after take-out Chinese food and found the following message, "When you come to the last page, close the book." (I kid you not).

As far as the post-ep series goes, I've reached the end of the line. It's been a fun and wild ride, but one I probably (never say never) won't continue in Season 10…there's just not enough room in my life right now to churn out 22 post-eps and expect them to all be homeruns (though I'm tempted to try some cork in my keyboard).

For those of you who may be disappointed by this turn of events, there's some good news: Lanie and I are planning a short epilogue to tie up some loose ends from the crossover chapters, namely the exchange of journal entries. And we may have a few other surprises up our sleeves. It'll be written under an as-yet-to-be-determined pseudonym and set in an alternate universe that picks up right where we left off.

Since I'm bumping up against 8,000 words here, I'll try to be brief in my accolades for the readers and the betas who've made it so worth my while.

Like Carby, my fan fic adventures have been more about the journey than the destination…and the beauty of what the road has passed by.

For starters, thanks to everyone who visited this site (according to Pay Pal, nearly 4,500 hits since Chapter 8).

Bouquets of thanks to the faithful who reviewed each and every single chapter: Starbright and MBooker.

And to those who came darn close: Taylor Wise, Anna, Spooky Anne, MeganStar, lilyhead and flutiedutiedute.

Heartfelt gratitude to writers much more talented than I for correcting my memory lapses/errors in judgment, tweaking my ramblings and reining me back in when I wandered off the reservation: Lesbiassparrow, Anna, Taylor Wise and of course, Lanie.

A permanent seat front row center will always be reserved in my heart of hearts for Pemberley whose amazingly perceptive postings during the bleakest hours of Season 8 restored my faith in Carby.

And lastly, for someone who needs no introductions, I'll simply repeat what I said somewhere around Chapter 10 since it still holds true a hundredfold.

**Once upon a time last fall, I found myself drawn to the Abby-centric writings of a fan fic author by the pen name of Sunni. Somehow, I sensed this amazing person peeking out from underneath the lilting cadence of Abby's musings. On a lark, I sent her an e-mail challenging her to do a Carter POV post-ep for "Walk Like A Man." She painted me – and her many fans – the Mona Lisa of post-eps. And slowly drew me into the magical world of fan fic (though at times it's felt like I've been sucked into a vacuum cleaner). And so, Lanie, for that – and the warmth and understanding and friendship you have extended to me through cyberspace – I am unabashedly grateful. **

One last wish: here's to Carby finding their way back home.

* * * * *


End file.
